


From Legend to Myth

by alikuu



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Barduil - Freeform, Crimes & Criminals, Cultural Differences, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fourth Age, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Politics, Reeeeaaaally Slow Burn, Slavery, Slow Burn, War, Young Bard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-04-15 11:31:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 94,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4605108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alikuu/pseuds/alikuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orphaned and down on his luck, seventeen-year-old Bard takes a risk to save a captured elf, in hopes of discovering something about himself. Unbeknown to him, the elf he saves is Thranduil and by getting involved, Bard's destiny becomes interwoven with the Elven King's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Miracle

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic Girion is the one who killed Smaug and fought in the Battle of the Five Armies. Bard is still of his bloodline, but was born in the Forth Age. The places in this fic are different from the ones in The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings, because the geography of the world has changed and everyone has migrated to the East, beyond the Sea of Rhun. 
> 
> The lovely Sky_Sky is this story's beta. You can check out her writing on https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sky_Sky/
> 
> All the art in this fic is by the talented Plotbunniesincolour> You can check out her other work on Tumblr: plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/ or DA: http://plotbunniesincolour.deviantart.com/. She is also on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan
> 
> Finally, here is a map for this story's geography: http://orig10.deviantart.net/2536/f/2015/303/c/b/map2_by_alikuu-d9exny6.jpg

~~~ Year 2049 of the Fourth Age of Earth ~~~

“Bard! Wake up! You gotta see this!” Percy’s voice startled him. “The slavers are here, and they have an elf! I think the Master’s buying it!”

Bard, a lanky youth with dark wavy hair and a grim countenance, looked up from the wooden boat he had been carving on his bunk bed.

“An elf?” he asked the other boy skeptically. “Are you sure?”

“Positive! Come on, let’s go!”

...

“This is bonkers,” Percy babbled when Bard caught up to him on the dirt road outside. “I thought elves were nothing more than old wives tales…”

The two teenagers jogged towards the Western Crossroad, where the roads to New Dale and Gondoria met. Their camp was situated around it, a good half-an-hour walk from the walled city of New Dale, the largest trade centre of the North. A few old buildings, which had once served as outposts were now converted into lodgings for the Master’s men. There was also a make-shift stable, a mensa, an armory and in the centre of it all, the Master’s lavish and somewhat ridiculously pompous tent.

Bard and Percy were relatively new recruits and did not see the Master often, as he rarely deemed any affair important enough to move his rather large person to their little camp. He usually resided in Dale, in a stuffy old office where Bard had met him, a bit over a year hence. And on that summer day, his appearance, as well as the unusual commotion around his tent, made Bard feel that something out of the ordinary was happening.

It looked like all 40 of the Master’s men were gathered outside the large tent, but only a few were allowed a peak in. There were also the infamous slavers, waiting a bit out of the way. Another good 15 of them with their horses, not counting the three long strings of slaves, crouching or sitting on the dirt road, no doubt exhausted from being hauled like animals and made to walk for days on end. Bard’s heart squeezed painfully in his chest at the sight of their faces, but he averted his eyes. There was nothing he could do at the moment, besides get himself into even more trouble with the Master.

“So, where is that elf?” Percy tried to sound casual as he approached the rest of the Master’s gang. They were all rowdy men in their middle ages, hardened by life and their mostly criminal trade. Nobody deemed to answer the teenager, as Bard had expected. Instead of waiting, he pushed his way bodily between the larger men and flipped the tent’s canvas to enter, Percy close on his heels.

The scene that greeted them was an unpleasant one. The Master, in all of his fat and conceited glory, was haggling with the Slave Man - a foreigner of small stature and eyes that shone calculatingly.

“After all, what use is he anyways,” the Master was insisting. “Who would buy a magical creature? People nowadays are tight on their pockets - they would not make such a risky investment...”

“No, no, no,” the slaver protested in accented common tongue, waving his hands energetically. “I will not be robbed! I told you his price. Take it or leave it, and do not worry about us finding another customer. If you know what’s good for you, you will see - you are getting a flat price, no auction. I can sell him for much better on the market of New Dale, but we are good friends. That’s why you take my deal...”

“We are friends, and friends help each other. Think about it, you can’t sell in New Dale without my help. You have no permit. I do. But we are friends, right? So I will help you, but I want something in return.”

At that the small man turned red.

“I don’t need to sell in New Dale. I will fetch a much better price in Gondoria…”

“If your slaves survive the journey. You haven’t been feeding them too well. By the looks of that poor elf, I reckon you are not heavy on supplies, eh?”

“We will manage.”

“But you are only 15 men. All sorts of folk wonder the North. Lots of places where you can get ambushed. I think you would need my protection,” the Master said meaningfully.

Bard and Percy looked at each other. The slaver began to swear in his own language and stormed out of the tent, pushing Bard and Percy out of his way, as a snorting laugh boomed from the Master’s face.

“Ahh, I loved doing business,” he sighed in the end, using his sleeve to wipe moisture from his eyes and nose.

“My lord is an excellent negotiator,” Alfrid, the Master’s personal assistant chimed in. “But I don’t remember your lordship inviting this sorry lot to the meeting,” he added wiggling his greasy unibrow towards the two young men.

“So it’s true,” Bard dared to speak uninvited. “Not only do you deal with these slavers but you are now going to start selling lives as well!”

“Bard…” The Master began gently. “Remind me again… WHY I HAVEN’T HAD YOU WHIPPED TO A BLOODY PULP!!!”

“Because he is a bloody good archer, sire,” Alfrid supplied helpfully, but as soon as the Master turned his furious gaze upon him, he quickly added, “yet a good beating might teach him how to keep that running mouth shut.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Percy quickly cut in, pulling Bard’s arm and dragging him towards the entrance of the tent, “He is not well this morning, and we were just going anyway…”

“See to it that you are gone then!” the Master shouted, turning around and storming towards the table to pour himself a shot of whiskey. “Out, both of you!”

…

“Why do you keep asking for trouble? One of those days I’m going to get it, because of you,” Percy complained as the two congregated in the overgrown shrubs behind the old house where their lot bunked.

“It’s wrong, all of this,” Bard sighed, rubbing his temples forlornly.

“Hey, you scowl too much. Soon you’ll look old and wrinkled,” Percy winked. “It’s not all bad.”

“I don’t see how you can be so cheery. This place is a disaster. The Master is a criminal of the worst kind. Does it not bother you?”

“Me? Not really. It’s not my fault I’m hungry and I have no one else in this world. At least here I have a bed and my dinner is assured. I know the Master isn’t the best person, but he takes care of us. He even pays us. We can save up some and run away one day, just as we spoke.”

Bard sighed and looked away. Percy was the only friend he had managed to make in the camp. They were the same age, both hired at roughly the same time. The Master had taken him in when he had seen his ability with the bow and arrow. What had Percy done to deserve the same chance, he had never found out.

“Do you think we will get to see the elf at all?” Percy mused as he lazily kicked a dry branch.

“We will have to go a bit later, not while the Master is still more or less sober,” Bard said.

“So you want to sneak in,” Percy chuckled. “You are dead set on getting us a beating.”

“Don’t you want to see if it’s true,” Bard teased. “A real elf… I still don’t believe that one has actually survived. Some people even claim that they never existed in the first place.”

“More like, most sensible people,” Percy said. “It will really shake things up in New Dale if it’s true…”

The day rolled slowly from there. There wasn’t much to do with the Master preoccupied. Some of his men were dispatched towards the city’s market along with the slavers and the string of unhappy slaves, but Bard and Percy were not among them. Several others went on some other secret dealings, and the rest, after a few had managed to get a turn to go into the tent and see whatever was inside, quickly became inebriated in their boredom, playing hazard games with one another under the thick shades of the trees.

At some point Bard had to peel the earthbread for the evening’s meal and take his turn to clean the dorms, but as he scrubbed at the other men’s filth, his thoughts remained on the tent, and on what might or might not be in there. The Master never came out, which was not unusual per say, he rarely ever walked or moved around, unless it was to get to his horse or to sit from one chair or another.

As the day began to wane and the heat started to slightly recede in favor of a fresher, fragrant air, which blew from the nearby mountain, the night insects began their chorus, lanterns and fires were lit, the men began to roast meat, sing and drink even more. By the time the moon was fully up most were too full, too drunk or too lazy to do much more than lay around on the grass.

The camp was quiet, save for the sounds of nature from all around and the distant noise coming from the still lively New Dale. The midnight bell could be heard faintly beating from the city’s tower and Bard shook Percy, who had already dozed off on his bed.

“Do you want to come or not?”

Sleepily Percy dragged himself up and they sneaked out of the house as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake anyone up.

The Master’s tent was quiet, even though the lights inside still burned. It wasn’t hard to guess whether its occupants were awake or asleep - the thunderous snoring of the Master and the slightly quieter, wetter snore coming from his man servant, told the tale of whiskey drank well into the night.

“I hope this is worth it,” Percy whispered nervously and he looked pale as he followed Bard and quietly slipped into the tent.

They found the Master and Alfrid just as they had expected, asleep around a table heavy with half-eaten food and reeking of alcohol. A section of the tent was separated and there were two guards snoozing next to the canvas, which hid what was inside. When Bard and Percy approached, it became apparent that they were not completely alone.

“What are you two doing here?” Jassen, a large dark-haired man with a round beard and muscled frame growled. He was one of the Master’s oldest servants, a mercenary with a history of bloody violence.

“We came to see the elf,” Bard said quietly and he heard Percy’s breath hitch.

“No, actually, we were just.. lost?” Percy whispered, but Bard gave him a look.

“Here,” Bard said, pulling out two water skins filled with hard home-made liquor, which he had nicked earlier. “To make the night shift pass easier.”

The two guards looked at the boys and then at each other.

“Sure, why not,” the other guard said. His name was Swez and he was bald but his thick, red beard more than made up for the lack of hair on his head. “Let them take a look. No harm ‘ay?”

“No harm…” Jassen agreed. “But we need to go with them, lest they get carried away.”

“Of course,” Swez leered. “There are rules and all of that… Well now, boys. Do you want to see the elf?”

Bard’s alarms sounded, and for a moment he was sure that he was being toyed with. He was just about to reconsider when the canvas was lifted and to his great astonishment there really was someone on the other side.

It was a chained figure lying on some old rugs, covered haphazardly in fabric that looked like dirtied robes, which had been ripped and pulled apart in multiple places. Stepping inside, Bard’s nose wrinkled at the stale smell, but the more he studied the pale, long-limbed creature, the more he forgot about his surroundings and felt his eyebrows rise.

At first it was hard to tell if it was male or female, because it was very slender and had unblemished pale skin, which seemed to glow in the dim light like a fallen star. But upon further inspection, there was no mistake, the shoulders were broad, the muscles lithe but strong, the chest flat and the thighs too angular to be female.

Distantly he heard the guards chuckling and roughly nudging each other before he registered Jassen unsheathing his long sword and using it to pick at a tear in the robes near the elf’s shoulder. Carefully he nudged the torn cloth aside to reveal a bit more of the alabaster flesh.

“Stop it,” Bard hissed, pushing the guard’s sword hand away. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you, boy?” Jassen growled. “Didn’t you want to see the elf?”

At the commotion the elf stirred. He pushed up with his chained wrists to rest on his elbow, before sitting up and turning to survey the newcomers. That’s when it really hit Bard - the face, which turned towards them - it wasn’t human. The creature’s preternatural beauty was so overwhelming that for a second the young man forgot how to breathe. The elf had long pale blonde hair, almost silver, which fell around his shoulders and down his back. His jaw was well-defined and extremely fine, his mouth perfectly shaped, like a marble statue’s pout, his cheekbones high, and his eyebrows and eyelashes dark and stunning. But what truly set him apart, aside from the pointed ears, were his eyes. Ancient was the only word that came to Bard in order to describe them. Those ice-blue eyes had seen the world, long before Bard, his ancestors or perhaps the entire human race had first walked on it. They carried so much knowledge and understanding, such deep sorrow, and such eternal light…

“Girion?” it was a whisper, but it startled everyone into a stunned silence.

The elf had spoken. He had spoken to…Bard of all people?

“Girion. Girion, anin rehta. Ani lerya,” the elf’s voice was weak, and his gaze seemed unfocused.

The guards looked at each other and then at Bard with suspicion.

“Girion?” Swez drawled, eyes calculating.

Bard heart seemed to have stopped. Girion of Dale. The fabled king of his people, one of the most well-known figures of their culture. According to legend, Girion had lived in Ancient Dale of the Third Age, before the sea had swallowed it and pushed its people East to seek new lands. The old scrolls told of Girion slaying a dragon, waging wars alongside elves and dwarves and establishing the kingdom of Dale. Of course, these stories were considered to be wildly exaggerated, especially because there was less and less evidence of such mystical creatures ever existing.

But in Bard’s family story, Girion was more than that - he was a direct ancestor. One of his late father’s most beloved possessions had been the family journal - a scroll that traced their bloodline from Girion of Dale all the way down to Bard and his three younger siblings. If only his father had not treasured that old thing so much, perhaps he wouldn’t have tried to save it from the fire that burned their house to the ground…

“You know this elf?” Jassen asked, snapping Bard back to reality. The guard took a step into the youth’s personal space and put a large hand on his shoulder.

“What? No! Of course I don’t know him!” Bard said defensively and looked at Percy who was looking at him with almost equal measures of suspicion and apprehension.

“Girion…” the elf was clearly trying to reach towards Bard, causing the youth to bristle both with alarm and with undeniable excitement. Had this creature known his ancestor?! Could he see the connection in him?

“He hasn’t spoken at all until now. Not a single word, the Slave Man said,” Jassen said and pointed the blade of his sword at Bard’s unprotected neck.

“My name is Bard, not Girion! He obviously has me confused with someone,” the youth said as calmly as possible, trying to sound light and pushing at Jassen’s sword hand, steering the steel away from his throat and shaking the hand off his shoulder.  “Surely to elves all humans look the same…”

“Lots of people are called Girion,” Percy found his voice finally.

“Girion…” the elf collapsed, “Mellon nin… Uuma auta…”

“He is delirious,” Bard said looking at the guards accusingly. “Has anyone even fed him?

“Hey there, loverboy, not so fast,” this time it was the red-bearded Swez’s turn to point his sword at Bard. “You are not the boss around here. The Master has taken whatever care he has deemed necessary.”

“It doesn’t seem like he has done a very good job. What happened to him? I mean, why are his clothes that way,” Bard trailed off taking a better look at the elf. It seemed that his clothes had been cut intentionally. “Did… did someone…”

“What? Fuck him?,” Swez snorted and both guards laughed at the way Bard and Percy flinched. “Of course not! The Master would not allow anyone to touch him. That includes you too, ladies,” he waved with his sword unspecifically before putting putting it away in the sheave.  “But you can stare, if you want. Some of the others did a bit more than that -”

The words made Bard sick.

“This is wrong!” he burst. “You can’t treat someone this way! He has done nothing to deserve this!”

The guards just laughed at him.

“Don’t you understand how valuable he is? We could learn so much from him! Our whole society could learn! He might be the last elf alive! Imagine the stories he could tell!”

“Stories - shmories, bah,” Jassen spat. “Who cares about that stuff. Let them learn! All I care about is the nice meaty share I’m going to get when that thing gets sold.”

“We can’t sell him to slavery,” Bard protested. “Who knows what would happen to him. We must let him go! Imagine if there are still more like him. Kidnapping him and treating him this way might start an interracial war!”

“A war? Against the fairies,” Swez joked and Jassen chuckled.

“You never know how many of them there are! He might be important - they might come looking for him!” Bard protested.

“I don’t want to interrupt or anything, but he does not look like a fairy at all. I reckon he could be quite dangerous if he were released,” Percy observed.

“I’m not afraid of no blonde fairy warrior,” Jassen declared loudly. At that rate, Bard thought, the Master was soon going to wake and join their little gathering.

“You think this is funny, but have you heard nothing of elves?” Bard hissed, lowering his volume. “I don’t know what kind of stories you have been told, but the legends I’ve read tell of a fearsome race of immortal beings, unparalleled in endurance, valor, but even more so in stealth. A whole garrison of elves might be surrounding our camp right now, preparing to slaughter us all in our sleep, and we would know nothing of it!”

“Well, good thing that we won’t be sleeping tonight, right Jass,” Swez snorted taking a long swing from his ale.

“Enough of this elf talk,” Jassen said starting to push Bard and Percy out. “I don’t care if you are Bard, Girion or Girion of Dale! The Master will say what’s going to happen to the elf. Now, if all you want to do is spoil our fun, out you go, both of you.”

“You really should try to think with your heads for once!” Bard insisted as he was forced out of the tent.

“Go soil your pants in your sleep, boy” the larger guard said and with that Bard and Percy were kicked out. “And don’t come back here, or I’ll tell the Master and watch you get your baby ass properly spanked.”

…

“Wow, I can’t believe that elves exist! He was… amazing! I don’t even know how to describe him, so eternal… So beautiful! I wonder what the elf maidens look like, if the men look like this…”

“Will you stop it with the elf maidens,” Bard grumbled. He was in no mood for jokes. The elf uttering his ancestor’s name had really unsettled something deep inside of him. He had always wanted to believe his father’s scroll, but even in the best of times, his family had not seen a day without hardship. Hardly the stuff of ancient kingship, for certain.

Yet something in Bard had wanted to believe, and that something was even stronger now that he had lost nearly everything.

“We have to do something, Percy,” Bard concluded. “We have to free that elf and speak with him.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why’,” Bard asked incredulously.

“Why would you risk your life to speak to this creature?” Percy asked, looking at Bard carefully. “Is it because of what he called you back there?”

“No,” Bard answered quickly enough, but it seemed that he wasn’t fooling his friend. Percy often seemed dim-witted, but he was no idiot and Bard was no trained liar.

“But you were not that surprised,” Percy prodded.

“Well, perhaps I might have some distant relation to Girion of Dale,” Bard said reluctantly.

“You’re kidding,” Percy slapped his forehead. “If that’s true, if you have even the tiniest ounce of Girion’s blood, wouldn’t that make you the rightful King of New Dale?!”

“It doesn’t work that way.” Bard said.

“Why not? If that elf could prove it, you might be King! Oh Bard, if you become King, you won’t forget about me, would you,” Percy said dreamily.

“Of course not! I would shower you with treasures and you would be my right-hand man,” Bard laughed, indulging in the fantasy for a second.

“Well, I hope that elf tells all of New Dale about finding Girion’s heir then,” Percy said.

“He won’t unless we save him, Percy.”

“But Bard, we can’t! We would really get killed if anyone as much as suspects that we’ve tried.”

“I know, but I must try.” Bard said with finality, even though he had no idea how he could achieve such a thing.

For a while the friends were quiet as Percy thought.

“I’m sorry, Bard,” he said finally.

“It’s alright.” Bard said, trying not to feel betrayed. “I understand.”

“You still won’t forget me if you become King, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Perhaps the other elves that you mentioned might come looking for him after all…” Percy suggested half-heartedly.

“I’m not so sure,” Bard sighed. “I only said that to get those fools to help me. If an army of elves was looking for him, they would have found him by now. Those slavers must have had him for weeks. They were travelling East from the Great Rhun Sea for months. I don’t know where they found him, but the other elves could have slaughtered 15 of them much easier than 40 of us. And so close to New Dale and all… Or maybe he’s just not that important, who knows.”

“Well, don’t lose hope. Perhaps you’ll get a chance,” Percy said patting Bard’s shoulder.

“I don’t believe in chance. But I think I have an idea…”

_(Art by Plotbunniesincolour)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm sorry for the butchered elvish in this chapter. The meaning is roughly "Girion/ release me/ my friend/ don't leave")


	2. Responsibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan to rescue the elf starts to form in Bard's head.

_Art by Plotbunniesincolour_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the next morning a caravan arrived in the Master’s camp. It was loaded with the most magnificent cage, any of the men had ever seen - large enough to fit a standing person, framed with gold and ivory, decorated with intricate leaf designs and glistening gems. It was truly a work of art… and yet, still a cage.

Bard tried to wipe the look of repulsion from his face as he passed the foul creation on his way to the Master’s tent.

It was still early, however the sun rising in a cloudless cerulean sky was baking the ancient milestones and the smell of summer flowers and herbs was heavy and sweet in the air. The heat was making the camp's’ occupants even more irritable than usual, and Bard could see them picking petty quarrels with one another on his way to the Western Crossroad. The whole camp was buzzing with movement. There was a task for almost everyone in the grand preparation of the convoy, which was due to take the elf to the slave market at noon. Bard and Percy were some of the few that were not included in any way, except for their usual chores.

There were loud voices coming from inside the Master’s tent. Bard stopped before the main entrance, listening to the words spoken inside. It sounded like the elf was making his preparation for the market difficult. It was likely a bad time to interrupt, however the young man chanced a peek inside.

A few men were trying to subdue the unfortunate elf, pushing and pulling at his limbs as he struggled. The look in those blue eyes was absolutely feral, and he growled and hissed like a wild animal. Bard cringed as he watched the men try to dress the elf in some pastel coloured, glittery garments, all whilst the Master stood at a safe distance, cruelly shouting his instructions and taunting the elf. Finally the elf’s strength failed and the blonde went limp in the hold of the thugs. That’s when the Master chose to make a signature show of supremacy, walked up to the exhausted creature and slapped his heavy hand across the elf’s face.

At the sound of the loud smack, Bard pulled back from the tent, unable to keep watching. His gut was quivering and he felt like he could wretch. However, he knew he couldn’t interrupt if he wanted his idea to work. Instead he chose to make good use of his time and hurried to the mensa to prepare the next stage of this plan.

…

When he returned, the elf was already inside the cage and was being loaded onto the caravan.

Forcing himself not to react, Bard approached the Master, who was busy gloating about the large sum of money he was likely to shave from the city’s aristocrats for just a chance to see the elf.

“Master, I ask your permission to join the party going to the market,” Bard said, keeping his head down in submission.

“What?! Has hell frozen over? Isn’t this the conceited brat, who announced to everyone that he would never participate in the slave trade, begging me to give him an extra job now?” the Master said in mock shock.

“I was wrong,” Bard forced out through gritted teeth. “I can see now how… profitable this trade is. I was a fool, and you were right. Your brilliance for selling an elf is unparalleled. No doubt soon you would be the richest person in New Dale. Who knows, you might be King. Please let me join today - I will do it for free, if only you would give me one last chance to redeem myself to you.”

“Well well… who knew the boy had a brain,” the Master said, looking intrigued and greedy. “I wonder what made you change your mind so, boy?”

“Oh, let him be,” Jassen crooned from the side. “The boy has fallen in love with the elf! Let him go stare at it for a bit longer - it might make a man out of him!”

At that the Master raised his eyebrows and then assessed Bard carefully.

“A word then, my boy,” he said.

Putting his greasy fat palm on Bard’s delicate shoulder, he pushed the youth a few steps away, until they rounded a corner and were relatively out of earshot.

“Bard, my lad, I have always seen a potential in you,” the Master began with as much sincerity as he could fake. “Right from the moment that you came like a beggar into my office, pleading for my help, I could see that you had something that not every man has - a drive. A drive towards greatness.”

Bard managed to keep his mouth shut as he was forced to listen to the Master’s twisting the past and bare the close proximity to the drunken stench of the old man’s breath.

“That’s why I gave you a job, even though I have more than enough men. I could see something in you. And you really disappointed me when you started rebelling against me, refusing to do what I told you to do, humiliating me in front of all my men… Do you understand?” the Master’s tone turned threatening and his grip on Bard’s shoulder painful. His watery eyes bore into Bards until the teenager looked away.

“I understand,” Bard said.

“I want to see you reaching your potential, Bard, I really do, but you would have to do as I tell you, when I tell you. I don’t care what finally made you realize slavery is a profitable trade, and I tell you now it’s in your best interest to participate in it, no matter how sad the poor little slaves look to you… But I think you are finally on the right path, so I will give you this one last chance. Don’t disappoint me again.”

“Thank you, Master,” Bard grit out, and even managed to look up into the Master’s eyes and smile.

“Good boy, now hurry and get ready, the caravan is leaving in a bit,” the Master said and sent Bard tumbling with the force of the heavy pat on the back.

….

The caravan did not leave in a bit, nor in a while, In fact it was due to the Master, whom everyone ended up waiting for whilst he chose what to wear in order to impress the citizens of New Dale.

Bard approached the cage with tray of dried meats, an apple, a bit of water and a pint of ale. The man stationed to guard the cage was one of the largest, but not by far the brightest of the Master’s goons. Upon seeing the teenager, he quickly stepped into his path with his arms crossed.

“No one approaches the cage,” he growled. “Master’s orders.”

“The elf must eat, in order to be presentable for the market,” Bard said looking up at the guard’s face. “Master’s orders.”

Everyone knew Bard worked in the mensa, therefore the guard wasn’t that surprised to see the boy bringing the slave food. With an irritated huff, he stepped out the way, but not before grabbing the dried meat from the tray and taking the pint of ale with his large, grimy hands.

“You may go,” he barked, letting Bard walk around him, before resuming his grim vigil of the camp.

Bard couldn’t believe his luck - the guard wasn’t even looking at him as he approached the cage. Perhaps he actually stood a chance…

The elf inside had been dressed into a gaudy, cheap-looking costume, which must have been unbearable in the heat. A heavy tunic with long flaring sleeves and cut out shoulders covered in cheap glitter, close-fitting fake silk tights, some worn knee-length boots and a sheer organza cloak, all of which were surely bought from a local theatre show.

Elves were still remembered in stories, and were often portrayed in high street productions, especially comedies. These kind of ridiculously coloured costumes were what elves were now associated with. However, apart from the apparel, there was nothing about that elf that looked even remotely ridiculous. He stood tall, taller than most of the men Bard had ever seen. The costume’s sleeves and legs were too short for him, revealing long lengths of pale, delicate wrists and ankles. Even in a cage, the elf’s back was straight, his head held high, and his eyes seemed to look into a far away distance, beyond the reach or memory of men.

“Hey, I brought you food" Bard said amiably, trying not to be intimidated by such a person. The elf gave no indication of having heard him.

“You don’t understand me, do you…” Bard sighed as he used the little opening in the cage to push the tray inside.

“I must make sure you eat,” he said loudly, in order for the guard to hear him. “Otherwise the Master will have my skin.”

Once that was done, he lowered his voice again.

“You must eat, come on,” he tapped on the bars, trying to get the elf’s attention.

The blonde seemed remarkably better than the previous night. Perhaps the Master’s care was not as hateful as the way the slavers had treated him. If anything, he was no longer delirious, only so distant that Bard wasn’t entirely certain that he was truly lucid.

“Hey, come on,” he tried again. “You wanted to talk to me last night. Don’t you remember? It’s Girion.”

“You are not Girion,” the elf responded so swiftly that Bard flinched.

“You are nothing like Girion,” the elf added, his voice deep and melodic, yet holding so much derision that Bard hardly had the will to face such scorn.

“So, I was right,” Bard whispered, willing his heart to steady. “You did mistake me for someone last night. Who is this Girion? Is he a friend of yours?”

“... Your cowardly race has diminished long since the time I last had friends amongst it. You are nothing more than orcs of a slightly farer visage…”

“Look, I know why you see us this way,” Bard said, “and I’m sorry. But we are not all like that. Eat, please.” he gestured to the apple and the water.

The elf was reluctant, but he accepted the offering.

“I don’t have much time,” Bard said while the elf chewed. “You must tell me, why did you think my name is Girion?”

The elf did not acknowledge he had heard him.

“Please,” Bard said urgently. “Did you know Girion of Dale? Is that whom you thought you saw?”

“You might be of his kin,” the elf said slowly, “But his noble blood has spent itself trice already if his line has become that of slavers.”

“So you did know him.” Bard whispered breathlessly. “But how did you know…”

“Your resemblance is striking. Such a cruel mockery of the man he was.” The elf’s eyes narrowed and he looked away.

“I’m not a slaver,” Bard said. “You know nothing of me.”

“And what is there to know?”

“I will be the one to rescue you,” Bard said boldly.

At that the elf let out a sound that couldn’t be anything but a snort.

“Oh,” his voice lowered even further in bitter amusement. “And what would you want in return, heir of Girion?”

“I want you to take me with you,” Bard said. “I want to serve under your leader’s command, like the men from legends of old! I want to learn from your kind. Become someone worthy.”

The elf did not respond for a while, yet he stared at Bard with an unreadable expression.

“That won’t happen,” he said finally. “I would never reveal anything of my people to you or any other human. I would rather perish in chains.”

Bard was just about to protest when the guard walked over and grabbed him by the back of his tunic.

“Time’s up. He has eaten enough already.”

Bard was thrown to the side. When his eyes sought the elf he found that the tall being had dismissed him completely.

The teenager hurried to get out of the way before more commotion caught the attention of the rest of the Camp, least someone reported to the Master he had been around the elf. There was a bitter tightening in his throat. The elf had made it clear he despised humans and would never be involved with them again. Not even with the heir of Girion. The chances of that elf ever helping Bard were next to nothing, but Bard had learned something new from the encounter.

His father’s tales were true. He was a descendant of Girion. He even had a resemblance to his face. It brought a warmth to Bard’s heart - his father hadn’t died because of a vain hope and a worthless piece of paper. He had died, because he had believed and known in his heart that it was right. Knowing his father had perished while trying to preserve the only meaningful family heirloom they had, somehow made the pain lessen, if only just a bit.

But the new information also brought a sense of duty. For his father, and for his blood, Bard couldn’t just walk away and leave the elf to his fate. He was innocent, and he did not deserve to be sold like an animal. In fact, Bard could no longer turn his face away from the suffering that the Master was causing. Now that he knew that no ordinary blood ran into his veins, he knew that he had no right to remain passive, no right to allow the monstrosities to continue. He owed it to everyone, because of whom he was. And even though he wasn’t going to get anything of it, he promised himself that he would free the elf. Because that’s what a son of Girion’s line would do.

 


	3. An Unlikely Rescue

_Art by Plotbunniesincolour_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Day and night, the second biggest city of the Fourth Age buzzed, its busy streets ringing with the clanging of smiths, shouting of traders and the multilingual speech of travellers from all corners of the world. New Dale symbolized the human ideal; it was a city of bold ambitions and soaring aspirations, crowned with tall spires that grasped towards the zenith above. The white stone of its high walls glistened, its arching domes shone against the cloudless midday sky and the burgundy and gold flags of the lost dynasty of Girion still danced with the mountain breeze.

However, underneath the splendor, hidden in the thick shadows of its tall buildings, New Dale revealed a different face. One of a city rotting with greed and foul intentions. The poor were many and uncared for, scraping for a living in dirt-filled favelas, where illegal trades like spices, weapons and dark magic flourished. Beggars and criminals crowded the streets, seemingly invisible to the unconcerned, coquettish upper classes. This was the true face of humankind – a few wealthy individuals, who cared nothing of the world beneath them.

The caravan carrying Thranduil’s cage was being hauled through gate after gate and up the many levels of the human city. A dark veil hid him from prying eyes, and vice versa, however the day was too bright for the cloak to completely deprive him of a sense of what was outside. He could easily make out the two dozen henchmen guarding him and get a decent impression of New Dale’s streets.

And what he could not see, he could hear, sense and smell - metal contraptions everywhere, powered by neither men-power nor fire. Their unknown mechanisms were noisy, ugly and polluting. Steam was rising into the air, leaving little streams of backwards water, running down the steep streets from the higher levels of the city to the lower, poorer areas. The humans acted ignorant to the poison, their children playing in the squalor they created.

The world he had been pulled into was nothing like his own. Had he been captured by orcs he might have been less unsettled, because even though he despised those foul beings from the bottom of his fëa, at least he partway understood them. The humans on the other hand, he could not even begin to fathom.

For less than two thousand years humanity had reigned over Earth unchallenged, and in such a laughably short period they had stopped questioning their place in the world and all but forgotten about the other children of Illuvatar. It wasn’t just how far they had strayed from everything his people had taught them and how much they had forgotten about their own past - it was their very nature that was strange, unstable and unknowable to the elves. Their desire for constant change led them on a path of neither preservation nor destruction but one of unpredictable and utter chaos. Only humans were equally capable of both the wonderful and the monstrous.

“Good people of New Dale, come, see a wonder of wonders! See a creature so ancient, it walked the Earth before the Sun and the Moon were born! Come see a thing of magic, wonder and extreme beauty! Come to the slave market and discover a treasure, which could become yours...”

It was the Master’s voices sounding through a tube from the front of the convoy. The Elven King supposed that the despicable man’s gaudy outfit attracted as much attention as his booming voice. Surely enough, they were being followed by a growing crowd of what sounded like children, women and loafers.

The human cacophony increased exponentially as the caravan reached its destination. The slave market square was located in the upper middle levels of the city, surrounded by tall buildings and filled with a large congregation of potential customers and onlookers. As soon as they entered the court a deep shade hid the outside from the Elven King’s eyes. Yet he did not need his eyesight to make sense of the reeking of fear, body fluids, dehydration and festering wounds. He could hear the lashing of beatings, cruel shouting, money counting, soft, hopeless sobs and panicked screeching of captured and caged animals brought to the market for it’s rich patrons leisure and entertainment. This was humanity’s worst side, gaping at him from behind a thin curtain ready to be drawn away and expose him to its horrors.

Soon the caravan stopped and several men came to pick up his cage through the cloak, jostling him as they lifted it to a platform of some sort. The noise outside remained unperturbed until the deep voice of the Master gathered the attention.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! I know what you have gathered to see today, and I won’t hold it off from you for much longer, but first, hear me out! From the deepest, most treacherous forests and across the perilous Eastern downs, I have brought you a mystical creature of ancient beauty and unimaginable powers! Many men died during this trek, and even more died trying to capture this magnificent and dangerous specimen. Now one of you can have the exclusive chance and utmost privilege to own this extremely rare and alluring exhibit. My most esteemed patrons, I give you, an elf!”

With that the cover was suddenly lifted and the light momentarily blinded Thranduil before the whole sight of the market was revealed to him. It was a large square, surrounded by nearly a solid wall of tall marble buildings with a huge canopy suspended between them, some fifty feet above the ground, to serve as protection from the scorching heat of the summer sun.

A few hundred awed human faces of all ages and colours were gazing at him with various degrees of dubiousness. For a moment they were all quiet before the noise resumed again, even louder than before as the mood began to morph into awe.

The Elven King did not linger on them, instead his eyes darted around to survey any possibilities for escape. He saw at least two hundred slaves being sold, all tied together in strings of fifty or so. Most looked exhausted but strong, like warriors of conquered tribes. the rest were wretched-looking women and children, whose faiths must have abandoned them into the hands of cruel men.

Rich patrons, who had been walking around surveying the exhibits, were now turning their calculating eyes towards him and the whole crowd began congregating tightly around the spot where he was displayed.

From what the Elven King could see, there wasn’t much hope for escape. The only way in and out of the market was through the main road from which the caravan had entered, and it was tightly guarded by the city’s authorities.

Thranduil’s heart tightened. What he needed was the key to the cage, a rather large distraction and nothing less than a miracle to get through a myriad of armed men.

As he wrecked his brain for a plan, the Master allowed several finely dressed humans to get on the platform and survey him through the cage. Distantly he could hear their appreciative comments and feel their sordid attention slide over the whole of him like a groping hand. A particularly bold man tried to reach into the cage to touch him, and without thinking or even looking, Thranduil broke his fingers with one lightning quick strike. When the human shouted in pain and backed away, the mob burst into cruel laughter.

The Master was laughing gleefully at the increasing tension in the crowd, delighted by their undivided attention and hungry gazes. More and more local aristocrats were pouring into the market, having heard of the marvel being sold, and ready to spend their fortunes on an impressive one-of-a-kind purchase. The tension quickly evolved to sparks as the multitudes of potential bidders began fighting for a better spot for the auction.

Thranduil tried to focus on coming up with a plan, but found it impossible with the increasing hysteria building up inside him. His fëa rebelled against its fate and his hröa followed suit; with gagging revulsion and trembling anxiety clouding his judgement and making it impossible to think. He attempted to force his mind into wondering, calm his body and soul into functioning order, however the visions of forests and moments of the past evaded him. His heart was beating too fast and his breath coming out shorter than it should. He was panicking and all he could do was try to hide it, conceal it from the humans, who only waited for a show of weakness to tear him apart.

With a start Thranduil became aware of the cage being opened. The platform had been cleared of any other potential customers, save from one - a slender man with ash blonde hair, dressed in robes adorned with swirling colours of maroon and beige, beautifully accented. The garments swirled around his feet when he moved and an elaborate headdress rested upon his head.

The man was escorted by taller guards, who wore a black and red crest, decorated with hammer and tongs. The entire crowd was paying close attention to the exchange and it looked like the man in question was someone of great importance, because the Master was nearly doubled over in a bow, muttering words of flattery.

“Come here, creature,” the human said, opening his palms as if expecting nothing but obedience.

Thranduil’s blood seethed and he remained frozen, not even turning his eyes to fully look at the human.

“Doesn’t it speak?” the man asked to no one in particular.

“My men have heard it speak in its own language,” the Master quickly reassured. “Perhaps it would take some taming,” he added with a sleazy wink.

The human made an uncommitted noise.

“Take him out,” he said almost boredly to his guards and suddenly Thranduil was yanked violently out of the confines of his cage and made to kneel in front of the much shorter human.

“Does it bite?” the man asked in an unconcerned tone and, without waiting for the Master’s reassurance, stepped up to Thranduil and grasped his chin to take a better look at his face.

Thranduil met the human’s dispassionate olive green eyes with firmness, glad for the feelings of ire that had replaced the paralyzing panic. The human’s face was young, despite the strands of grey in his neatly tied back hair. His expression revealed nothing and he seemed unaffected by the Elven King’s killer glare.

“Immaculate,” the man uttered under his breath. The entire crowd watched with rapt attention as the man softly ran his delicate hand over the pale strands of the Elven King’s hair. “I am surprised that you, of all people, have gotten your hands on such valuable goods.”

“My Lord flatters me,” the Master scrambled to bow even lower despite his engorged belly getting in the way.

“Hardly,” the human lord said. “Lift him up.”

With that Thranduil was pulled to his feet. The man reached up to touch the Elven King’s jaw, his exposed neck and shoulders, probing the quality of his skin in the same way another would check a horse’s teeth. Thranduil’s gut twisted in indignation at being treated like an inferior being by someone who could never even hope to come close to being his equal.

Running a hand through the Elven King’s hair one last time, the human said.

“Alright, should the bidding begin then?”

“At once, my Lord,” The Master said. “The bidding is now ready to begin!”

Thranduil’s eyes followed the human as he walked down the steps to the foot of the platform, flanked by his entourage. People previously in the unfortunate space moved wordlessly, looking weary to be in such company. The lord himself appeared emotionless and was not even glancing at his intended purchase. However, as odious as that man had been, thanks to him a plan had formed in Thranduil’s mind, one that might actually work. If his physical appearance was all that these men valued. He knew how he could use that…

The auction began almost immediately and lasted for a while. The winning bidder was not by any means a surprise. A few zealous competitors emerged, but it seemed that the ashen haired man was either unparalleled in his riches, or would give any price to own an elf.

“And the winning bid goes to, his magnificent Lordship Graham Newdalion,” The Master announced with no small amount of fanfare.

There were cheers and excitement as the Elven King’s price was settled between Newdalion and the Master. Once the money had been exchanged and the key to his cage had passed between their hands, the Elven King got the opportunity he had been awaiting.

Turning his awareness inward, Thranduil dug right into an old wound, which had never fully healed. Willingly stripping his soul of all its defences he felt the familiar memory of burning pain spread over his body.

With a throaty cry he collapsed to his knees, bending forward. The age-old scars of his fëa burned him from within, until the memory of fire stripped away skin and flesh, leaving his left eye blind and his side mutilated.

The humans didn’t even think twice before opening the cage, retrieving him and spreading him out over the platform to be examined.

“What trickery is this?” He could hear the lord hissing, “Do you think this is funny?!”

“My Lord, I swear, he was fine until just a moment ago, I swear, your highness said it himself, perfect, please my Lord…”

As the indignant lord’s voice escalated to shouting about being robbed and cheated, the interest of the crowd increased threefold. They had been fairly interested to see an elf earlier, but now they were absolutely engrossed because they got to see a fight, an injury and a freak.

All together, Thranduil was getting exactly the kind of distraction that he had intended. He mimicked injury and pain whilst waiting for just the right moment to strike out, release himself and bounce off on light feet over the crowd’s shoulders and heads. All he needed was the examiners’ hands to loosen for just a bit, for just the smallest slip in their attention…

As the noise around them increased and the humans all pushed forward to catch a glimpse of the scene, something unexpected happened. The Elven King’s keen ears caught the unmistakable sound of a bow string ringing with release.

His eyes instinctively flew opened and he watched the trajectory of an arrow flying up into the air above them. It flew up and sliced cleanly through one of the thick ropes holding the canopy above them.

In a rapid succession of less than a second, three more consecutive arrows followed, each cutting off a rope that held the canopy. Disbelievingly, Thranduil watched as in one fluid motion the large burgundy fabric began floating almost perfectly level towards the town square beneath it. Moments before the heavy cloth slipped over the heads of everyone and blocked their vision, the Elven King managed to catch a glimpse of the archer, who had released the arrows.

The cloth wrapped around the youth’s head did nothing to conceal his identity from the Elven King, because Thranduil had seen only one other who could draw a longbow with such precision and strength and that had been more than two thousand years hence. It could only be one of Girion's line that could wield such a weapon thus.

Bard.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry to end it here, but this chapter got waaaaay out of hand! This is like 1/3 of the total thing and I decided to split it for my sanity's sake, because I was getting overwhelmed by the scope of the editing. I hope you enjoyed this instalment, even though it's so short. The good news is that the next bit is on its way - I will try to get it out by the end of the week :D Thanks for reading and to those who have left me comments - I love you guys!


	4. A Safe Place

_Art by Plotbunniesincolour_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took less than a second to recognize Girion’s descendant. Bard had hid his face behind a scarf and a hood, however the impressive longbow tamed by such lithe arms gave him away. The weapon looked too big and too ancient on such a young human. Yet it answered to Bard and his control over it was unquestionable.

It was no small wonder to see such skill reborn two thousand years hence but Thranduil had no time to analyze the new discovery or how it made him feel. Bard had bought him the ideal moment for escape - the fallen canopy obstructed everyone’s vision, creating chaos in the Slave Market. Amidst the shouts of dismay and surprise, the Elven King escaped the hold of the Master's goons and rolled off the platform. He landed on his hands and knees, the sun-baked cobblestones warm underneath him. His head was still a little shaken from recalling the past, but his mind and his vision were quickly clearing up.  

His former captors were shouting after him, but they had no hope of finding him once he had disappeared between the disoriented crowd. Crouching low, he darted through the sea of disgruntled humans, who were too busy with the heavy fabric covering their heads to notice an escaping elf.

Voices were filling the air under the canopy, some angry, others annoyed, a few even laughing. But at the edge of the market a new kind of commotion took precedence over the rest of the noise. There were sounds of weapons and struggle, together with cries:

“Help! Someone has released the slaves!”

Thranduil couldn’t see them, but it sounded like the slaves had turned on their captors. Briefly the Elven King wondered if Bard had been responsible for that as well.

He found the edge of the canopy and peeked from underneath. It looked like the final barrier to his escape had been removed. The guards, who had been stationed at the entrance of the Slave Market were busy fighting the escaping slaves. The way was clear, but it couldn't stay that way for long, so Thranduil took his chances.

He ran through the arch of the market square and down the stone-laid streets, barely allowing passers-by a glimpse of himself as he headed towards the lower levels.

The old wound was already forgotten and therefore completely healed, but Thranduil was exhausted from the long journey with the slavers and weeks of deprivation. His inner reserves were all but depleted and his strength was quick to wane, yet he pushed on.

Streets, corners, arches, markets, all flew past him so quickly he barely had the time to register his surroundings. He did not stop, nor did he slow down, even though the lower he went into the city’s poorer areas, the more the streets felt like a maze. He went around in circles. Closed squares and false passages confused him and made him change direction until he lost all track of where he was going. Like a hunted beast, he kept running until his heart was about to burst and the flimsy theatre costume, which he had been forced to wear, tore apart at the seams in several places.

Finally Thranduil turned a corner and found himself at a dead end passage in a ghetto residential area of lower New Dale. The screaming of his muscles and the ache in his lungs could not be ignored any longer. He had to stop for a moment and catch his breath. He tried to listen for pursuers. The pounding of his heart was so loud, he could hardly hear anything, but senses told him that the danger had not yet passed

Before he could make a little more than a few shaky steps, a large hand grabbed his arm and spun him around. The exhausted Elven King’s back hit a wall and for a moment he leaned against it for support. He tried to regain his breath and his footing as he came face to face with Jassen, the dark haired henchmen from the Master’s camp.

“Dead end,” Jassen chuckled as he pointed his double edged dagger at the Elven King. “You run quite fast for a fairy. But you can’t outrun me here - I grew up in the city. I know every stone, every corner…”

Thranduil’s eyes quickly darted around their surroundings. It was subtle, but Jassen was too proficient in his ignoble craft to miss it. He grabbed a hold of the Elven King’s neck and pinned him to the wall for safe measure.

“I wouldn’t try running, or screaming,” the thug said, “That scar of yours might be fake, but I’m not above giving you a real one to make you remember me. Perhaps then you would learn your place.”

Guided by his baser instincts, Thranduil stuck out like a cornered animal. He sunk his nails into the hand holding him in place, eliciting a cry of pain from his captor. Then he kicked him under the kneecap and viciously bit his dagger hand.

Jassen roared in agony, but did not let go of Thranduil’s neck. Instead he used his hold to smash the Elven King’s head against the wall repeatedly. The elf’s resilient skull dented the mortar behind him, but in his weakened state, Thranduil felt the pain too keenly and tasted blood in his mouth way too soon.

The dagger pressed to his neck in warning, but Thranduil was beyond reason. Stuck between a wall and a dagger, the Elven King grabbed the blade with his bare hand and struggled to angle it towards Jassen. Blood poured between the two opponents as they fought for control over the knife.

“You are one resilient bastard,” Jassen huffed as he struggled to overcome Thranduil’s strength. “I will give you that... But you… are not… going to have this...“

The thug threw all his weight into a sudden lunge and the blade slipped from Thranduil’s grasp, barely diverted by the elf’s answering push to the side. It avoided his neck and vital organs, but sunk deep into his left shoulder.

Thranduil let out a breathless gasp of pain, his eyes going wide and his face frozen in shock. Jassen chuckled, seeing the look on the elf’s face and momentarily he lowered his defences. He believed he had won, and paid for it when the next blow from the Elven King knocked off a few teeth. Surprised, but still a hardened criminal, Jassen did not loosen his hold on the dagger. Instead, he twisted it, making Thranduil keen in pain and grab onto the man’s hand, in a vain attempt to make the agony stop.

Jassen recaptured the elf’s neck and laughed at his misery, cruelly enjoying the victory.

Then out of nowhere, a fleshy thump was heard and the goon’s eyes lost their focus. The man went limp, his hands slipping away from the elf and he fell on the ground. The masked archer was standing behind him, this time holding a large log of firewood.

For a moment the Elven King and the boy stared each other down, one panting from pain and exertion, the other stock still and uncertain. The sound of the log falling to the ground beside the unconscious man broke the moment of stillness.

Quickly and efficiently Thranduil dislodged the dagger from his shoulder and pointed it at the boy, who was unarmed, aside from the longbow on his back.

“Hey,” Bard’s voice said, raising his open palms in the air. “It’s ok, I mean no harm.”

The Elven King did not respond, instead he slowly rounded the boy, moving towards the exit of the alley with every intention to leave and disappear again.

“Wait, I know a safe place!” the youth called, making Thranduil slow down and finally stop in his tracks.

Slowly the ancient elf turned his head and accessed the youth over his shoulder. The boy removed the scarf from his face, and unsurprisingly it was Bard’s face staring at him with wide hazel eyes.

“Trust me,” the youth urged.

“How could I?”

“I understand why you wouldn’t,” Bard said, “but you are injured and lost. Do you really have another choice?”

 

…

 

Bard didn’t know what he was doing. His sketchy plan had somehow overachieved its goal, despite the part where he had initially given up on saving the elf when he had seen the amount of people gathering to see him.

Instead Bard had used it as an opportunity to sneak the keys from the slavers and give them to the slaves, thinking that at least some good could come out of the situation… Everything past that point - luck and impulse decisions.

Bard didn’t even know what had possessed him to shoot the canopy and to follow the elf through New Dale. By all means, once the elf was free, Bard had done his share, right? Yet here he was, and having saved the fair being twice, somehow he felt that the elf had become his responsibility.

Said elf was currently bleeding and looking at him distrustfully.

“Here,” Bard said, making an eager step towards the blonde, only to have the elf flinch away and raise the dagger at him. “Ok, ok… Take this.”

The elf grabbed the bandana from Bard’s extended hand and quickly cut it in two, winding a part of it around his bleeding palm. The elf continued to refuse any help, choosing to tighten the makeshift bandage with his off hand and his teeth. Then he used the second part of the scarf to press on his injured shoulder, all the while staring straight into the young man’s eyes.

“You need to change, you are too noticeable,” Bard said, raking a hand through his unruly hair. “Put on his clothes -”

Jassen wasn’t going to be happy to wake up naked in the dirt, but it was his own fault really; he’d brought it upon himself.

The elf looked thoroughly put off by the idea. Nevertheless, the blonde silently began removing his torn-up clothes. Bard turned around to give him some long overdue privacy while he changed.

When he turned, the elf was wearing the thug’s sweaty linen shirt, leather vest and trousers. The shoes however were the same knee-high boots from before, arguably the only acceptable part of the previous outfit.

The length of the new clothes seemed to fit, even though they were too wide for the elf’s slight frame.

“You should cover your hair as well,” Bard suggested.

He ended up giving up his hood to the elf, who gathered his long hair up and twisted it underneath the offered article. All together, it was an acceptable disguise - one that would not attract unwanted attention.  

With their undyed, worn clothing, they easily blended with the crowds in the narrow streets and markets of the lower city. Bard took them on a winding path, just in case there were any more pursuers or spies on their tracks. Once he felt certain that they had lost any possible tails, the teen lead the way to a particularly old section of the lower town.

Underneath a tall stone wall, which separated their level from the next one above, there was a hidden duct, guarded by rusty railings.

“Through here, follow me,” Bard moved some debris out of the way and revealed two missing railings.

The boy and the elf slipped through the opening and began descending a long tunnel on the other side.

The darkness was punctuated by streaks of light coming from other openings and vents, but the tunnel went steadily downwards. At some point it joined into a bigger one, and soon after they entered a large underground chamber. Its corners and ceiling disappeared into sticky darkness, the air was cold and moist with a lingering stench of death.

“Where are you taking me?” the elf asked.

His voice was clear and deep. The melody of it was enchanting when released from its earlier poison.

“A safe place,” Bard promised.

“Inside a tomb.”

“It's not a tomb, well not exactly; or at least not anymore,” Bard tried to explain, while keeping his voice down. “These are the catacombs of New Dale. Not many people remember nowadays, but when New Dale was first founded, around 500 FA, there was a massive plague in the city. It was a previously unknown disease, native to these lands, but the new settlers had not the natural resistance, nor the means to cure it. So many died during the plague the population was reduced by three quarters and a cult towards Death began spreading.”

“People started digging under the city, creating underground passages and tombs, which later grew into whole chambers. These catacombs are now an intricate web of tunnels under the city. You can get anywhere from here… As long as you know the way, of course.”

“And they are abandoned?” the elf asked suspiciously.

“When the new religion became popular in the first millennium, the cult of Death died off and most of the entrances were sealed and these tunnels forgotten. Only a few entrances remain now and very few know of them."

“How did you find out about these entrances?”

“I had to live here when I first moved to New Dale, almost two years ago,” Bard recalled. “I was on the streets until I figured that I could find shelter if I found out where the beggars slept at night. That’s how I discovered this place. There are all sorts of folk here - homeless, immigrants, sometimes even criminals but they rarely come down here unless they have absolutely no other choice.”

“And now there will be slaves as well,” the elf added.

“You are not a slave.” Bard tried to reassure him.

“I wasn’t referring to myself,” the blonde said. “In the distance I hear voices of the men whom you rescued today.”

"Elves' hearing must be keen indeed. But how did you know it was me?”

“I saw you shooting the canopy down. You would be lucky if no one else has observed that as well.”

“I wore a mask for a reason,” Bard said.

“Your Master in the very least would know whom to suspect.”

Bard wasn’t surprised anymore that the elf had overheard the conversation about his skills with the longbow. However, it was a bit harder to accept the elf’s increasingly haughty tone.

“He is not my master and I hope you are wrong,” Bard said tersely.

As they walked, Bard tried to alleviate the sudden tension between them.

“What is your name anyway,” he asked. “My name is Bard.”

“I already know your name. As for mine, it is none of your concern.”

“I saved your life,” Bard exclaimed disbelievingly. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but you can at least try to be civil with me! You owe me that much.”

“I owe you and your kind nothing.”

 

...

 

The main chamber was not too far off and when they reached it, they found it full of whispering slaves. All voices were kept low and their steps were quiet in an attempt not to alert the outside world of their presence.

As soon as someone spotted the bow on Bard’s back, the former slaves all turned their attention to the newcomers and began crowding around Bard, offering their thanks.

The teen was uncertain of how to respond, so he just muttered different variations of “No need to thank me” and “I did nothing really” as he made his way to the man who unofficially  ran the catacombs - an elderly dark-skinned and dark-eyed refugee called Masego.

Looking over his shoulder, Bard saw the elf had become transfixed by a dim electric lamp, one of many, which illuminated the main chamber.

“It’s called electricity,” he said offhandedly. “Come.”

The elf didn’t say anything, but followed Bard further into the crowded chamber.

The youth spotted Masego speaking to two tall former slaves, no doubt the same warriors, who had led the riot in the market square. He was glad to see that they had followed his instructions and found the way to the catacombs. Sadly, their friend, the one Bard had given the key to, had not made it to the catacombs.

“You can stay here for a few days until I find a way to come back and help you get out of the city,” Bard turned to the elf. “It seems that the refugees have accepted the slaves and will help them as they can. I’m going to talk to their leader and ask that he provides food and essentials for you as well.”

“You need not,” the elf said. “I won’t be staying. I intend to leave at nightfall.”

“I know you would prefer to leave this place as soon as possible, but you must believe me, the whole city will be looking for you tonight. Lord Newdalion is a very powerful man, and he will stop at nothing to find you. It’s not even about the money he has lost on you. That man has a reputation of never losing. Please trust me,” Bard insisted, looking straight into the elf’s icy blue eyes. “I will lead you out of the city when it’s safe.”

For a few moments he was subjected to the most intense gaze he had ever endured. It felt as if the elf could reach into his mind and read his thoughts. Bard had nothing to hide, so he allowed it until the end. Finally the elf looked away.

“Why do you keep doing this?” the elf asked softly. “I have nothing to give you, and I will not fulfil your wish.”

“Because not all men are the same,” Bard said, not letting any disappointment slip into his tone.

Perhaps he was a bit bitter about the fact that he couldn’t run away from his life into a world of magical creatures and glorious destiny. However, Bard had long since learned to accept the cards he had been dealt and move on.

The teen turned his back on the elf and approached the little gathering of men in rags.

“Sir,” Bard greeted the man in charge, causing said man to laugh.

“I am no sir, Bard! Don’t bullshit me with your upper city talk. You brought slaves and now you want me to take care of them. Am I right?”

“I didn’t bring them,” Bard said defensively. He was never sure when Masego was being serious and when he was joking, but he knew better than to piss off that man. “I just told them where to go. The catacombs are not yours or anyone's - everyone is free to come here.”

“Yes, true,” Masego smiled and nodded his head in agreement. “Including the city guard, Newdalion’s men… Oh, is that the elf everyone is talking about? Good, so we can count on more company!”

“Nobody saw us coming here,” one of the ex-slave warriors said in a heavily accented common tongue. The female quality of her voice surprised Bard - he had assumed the tall, athletic and rather grim figure belonged to a man.

“Nituna is right,” the other warrior, also surprisingly female but with a better grasp of the common language, added. “Unless the boy was followed, they won’t know we are here.”

“Were you followed?” Masego asked raising an eyebrow at Bard.

“No, I am certain I wasn't,” Bard said.

“In that case,” Masego opened his hands and grinned. “You brought me some new friends, now you are going to ask something of me. What do you want, Bardie?”

“The elf needs help,” Bard pointed to the elf, who had huddled next to a wall. “He is injured and needs a place to stay. I will come back for him in a few days. I only ask that you take care of him.”

“Is that all?” Masego laughed. “Done!”

“Thank you…” Bard said, uncertain how to thank the man for not being angry with the slaves being there and everything else. “Are you sure it’s ok…”

“It’s not ok,” Masego said. “Nothing is ok, not for me, not for you, not for anybody here. We don’t have enough food and supplies for our own, but if we start turning away others in need, won’t we become just like those in the city above who threw us all away? Let's just hope that you really weren't followed. Otherwise we are going to find ourselves in much more muck than we can handle.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I managed! I promised a chapter this week, so here it is. Still haven't gotten through editing everything that I wrote a week ago - I just can't get my shit together with my crazy work hours. But the good news remains that there is still stuff to come and hopefully soon. Thanks again for your lovely comments! I am always delighted to hear any feedback and thoughts and seriously, it makes me smile, so thank you :) I hope you enjoyed this. It will probably be next chapter that I will reveal my main plot device for this part of the fic. I know I've been promising that things will get clearer but I have been splitting the chapters into sizeable bits to post, and my main plot device is still coming. Clue, it's not underage sex, sorry. I hope I don't lose some readers now, lol :) but smut will come in part two of this fic, when Bard is nice and grown up, I guarantee:))


	5. A Moment of Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains mild gore, related to wounds and healing.

_Art by Plotbunniesincolour_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Evening was falling over New Dale. Dim yellow electric lights lit up its stone streets and high walls. The catacombs lay quiet and still underneath the city’s belly. Nighttime brought an even deadlier chill to the long tunnels; an evil draft hauled through the underground caverns and the inhabitants seemed to gather together tighter.

Thranduil sat away from the others, wrapped around himself, propped up against the moist wall of the Main Chamber. His mind was wondering, even as his senses remained acutely aware of his surroundings. He sensed an older man approaching him, and a boy right at his heels.

“Hey, are you alright?” the human crouching over him looked worn. His wide eyes were curious but cloudy with old age. His once dark hair had turned silver and he carried a pot of hot water with strong smelling herbs brewing inside it, some gauges and a sharp blade.

“He was stabbed there,” Bard pointed from behind the older man’s shoulder. “His hand is also injured. I think he lost some blood.”

“Well, he surely doesn’t look too well,” the stranger said.

Without warning the man reached his calloused hand towards the Elven King’s shoulder and Thranduil nearly slapped it, and would’ve if not for Bard’s quick reaction, yanking the older man back just in time.

“Whoah, at least he still has spirit,” the new one laughed good-naturedly despite his surprise.

“Be more careful,” Bard urged. “Those slavers must have had him for weeks. Do you think they’ve been easy on him?”

The old man turned to face Bard with his hands on his hips.

“Do you think anyone here has had a better deal than him? Look at those women over there - look at the children! Look at the men.”

Understanding dawned on Bard’s face and he looked down in shame.

“I don’t see you going all mother-hen on them. Relax, Bardie. I won’t hurt your friend. Maybe you should wait over there and let me do my job.”

Bard muttered something unintelligible, but did as he was told and walked away to another corner of the chamber.

Thranduil’s suspicion towards the newcomer had somewhat lessened since he had seen his exchange with Bard, however he remained apprehensive as the man crouched in front of him and looked him straight in the eye.

“Will you let me look at it or not?” the man asked.

Reluctantly, Thranduil unfolded his long legs in front of him and pulled the borrowed shirt away from his shoulder wound. It had quickly began to patch itself together, but it was still dark with dried blood, and it hurt like hell.

“That wound needs serious cleaning.” the stranger said, his voice turning somber and concentrated.

He crouched closer to the Elven King, well into his personal space and pulled his clothing out of the way. Thranduil turned away from the smell of old age and decay, which he sensed on the human’s breath. His heart was speeding up against his will, however he kept his breathing controlled and his mind calm as his wound was examined.

“My name is Masego,” the man said. “I take care of the people here. I’m not a healer, but I know my way with herbs. Did Bard tell you about this place...”

Suddenly a sharp pain got Thranduil gasping. The man had spoken to distract him just as he had reopened the wound and began squeezing the pus and dirt out from the gash.

“That’s it, the worst is over, now breathe,” Masego encouraged, his grip on the wound remained unyielding. “These catacombs were founded long ago…”

“I know,” Thranduil sneered through clenched teeth, his eyes tightly shut and his hands in fists.

“Here,” Masego pushed a wooden piece between the elf’s lips. Thranduil bit into it.

“I will tell you a different story then,” Masego spoke as he began cleaning the wound with the sharp-smelling infusion he had brought along. “One that might be of some interest to you. A long time ago, Brand III from the line of Girion foresaw the crumbling of Middle Earth and lead the people of Dale east. He discovered new lands beyond the Sea of Rhun, a continent of windy steppes, snowy mountains and lush forests. However, it was not uninhabited. There were tribes living in the western corners, from the north to the furthest south. The south is where I come from - a land so hot and dry, it covered in mighty sands.

“Brand brought knowledge and treasures with him, and was keen to have peace with the local populations. Soon he became a friend of the people who lived in the north and was allowed to establish New Dale beneath the Curtain Mountain, which lie to the North.

“However, more leaders of men began leading their people into the East and they were not as wise or as temperate as Brand. The Gondorians laid eyes on the balmy coastal areas, between the cool continental breeze of the north and the harsh heat of the south. That land was sacred to the tribes who lived there, and they would not let it go without war. And a war began… The Rohirrim soon joined in, and Brand’s successor Brut was not as noble as his father. He joined in the alliance of the men of the West against the native populations. That’s how the continent, which had once belonged to my people and others, became the land of foreigners, and we - exiles. They split it between themselves and established their three great cities - one in the North, New Dale, one at the Coast, Minas Falas, and one in the furthest East, Deorfald.”

“All done,” Masego said gently.

Thranduil felt like he had woken from visions of wars between men and breezy grasslands roamed with horses.

“Now will you let me see your hand?”

…  
“Your friend is as good as new,” Masego told Bard once he was finished. “I wasn’t able to convince him to eat, however. Maybe you can do that.”

The refugee leader patted the young man’s back amiably before going to ensure all the new people were accommodated and taken care of.

Bard cast one glance at the elf and decided that trying to convince him to join the rest of the humans for a meal would be futile. Instead he took two bows and went to the make-shift canteen where a large refugee woman was preparing a cauldron of communal dinner.

“Hi Helga.” Bard greeted.

“I’m surprised to see you here again, Bard,” Helga quirked an eyebrow. “Things didn’t go so well wherever you went I take it?”

“No, they didn’t,” Bard sighed, “However I am not really back. I’m only here for a friend.”

“Oh.”

“Can you fill these up for me? Masego has it covered.”

“There is no free dinner, you know that, lad.”

“Ask Masego! Really.”

Helga looked unimpressed, however she finally relented and gestured for the bows.

“Only because I like you, sweetie. But don’t tell anyone Helga is giving out free broth, because I won’t see the end of it.”

Once Bard had two bowls full of murky hot liquid, which could almost pass for a stew, he returned to the elf.

The blond was sitting on the floor with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. His hair was still wrapped in cloth, however his pointy ears and a few strands of golden hair had found their way out, catching the young man’s eyes. The elf twitched as the youth’s boots scraped closer over the damp gravel of the ground.

“Brought you food.” Bard said by way of greeting.

The elf opened his eyes and sighed forlornly before turning his head towards the teen.

“I don’t need any more of your kindness.” he said.

“It’s not kindness,” Bard insisted. “I just don’t like to eat alone.”

The elf’s eyes had a challenge in them, but Bard did not rise to the bait. Instead he sat down to the side of the elf and handed him a bow.

The blond reluctantly accepted the bow and watched as the teen began to slurp straight from the edge with mild disgust. However, it did not take long for the elf to mirror his actions.

They ate in silence for a while before Bard spoke,

“How did those slavers even capture you? I thought elves were supposed to be good at running and hiding.”

“You make it sound as if we are cowards,” the elf scolded.

“Forgive me, I did not mean it in that way,” Bard said. “I only meant that I though your people are swift and light on their feet.”

“That we are,” the blond conceded. “However, when the slavers came, I did not hide nor did I run. I was captured while defending my people.”

“What happened exactly?”

“I cannot tell you without disclosing too much. However, I can tell you that I willingly allowed myself to be captured, for the rest of my people to escape the same fate.”

“That’s very noble of you. But does that means the others do not know that you were taken? Is that why they have not come to rescue you yet?”

“No one is coming to find me,” the elf said softly. “There aren’t many left of my people, and those whom remain, I have sworn to protect. I specifically instructed them against coming after my pursuers.”

“So you are a warrior?” Bard asked.

“To some extent.”

“You must be terribly good with the bow then?” Bard asked hopefully.

“Actually, I happen to prefer swords,” the elf said with a raised eyebrow.

“But I thought elves were famous for their skills with the bow and arrow,” Bard complained.

“I am not one of those who have earned us such renown. You are probably a better archer than me, for that matter. Your ancestor was.”

“How did you get to know Girion?” Bard asked.

“We fought in a battle together.”

“Did he fight alongside elves and dwarfs often?”

“Just once. It was called the Battle of the Five armies, and it happened after Erebor was reclaimed, despite its initial destruction by Smaug. But your kind probably only remember the history of Dale, the first attack of Smaug, which almost destroyed your people, and the subsequent victory of Girion during the second attack.”

“It’s true, I haven’t read about that battle,” Bard said. “Who were the other two armies?”

“That’s a long story, for another day.”

“Will you tell me the tale later?” Bard asked hopefully.

“If you’d like.”

A silence followed and slowly Bard became aware of the elf’s curious gaze upon him. When he looked up he saw a peculiar expression on the ageless face, which he could not decipher.

“How old are you, Bard?” the elf asked.

“Seventeen,” Bard huffed.

The elf said nothing for a long while.

“I can see that you have little love for the Master,” he continued after the long pause. “How came you to work for him?”

“I had no choice,” Bard said. “I have to take care of my mother, my two younger sisters and my brother. They live in New Esgaroth where I was born. There is no work in my town, it's all just farms and woods and my family has nothing left after… After our estate burned down. I tried hunting, but it wasn’t enough, so I moved to New Dale to look for jobs. It’s what most people do nowadays.”

  
“I thought it would be easy, but it wasn’t. I couldn’t find a job, no one would hire a village boy when there were so many unemployed people in the city. I ran out of money and soon ended up on the streets. In the end, the Master hired me. I thought it was too good to be true, and it was - he turned out to be a criminal. I hate it, but I won’t find another job, and I have to send money back home.”

“If you stay you will become like the men you despise soon enough,” the elf said. “Today you went to the slave market and saved slaves, however by doing so you went against your own rules. Evil rarely starts off as such. Its nature is to seep in slowly. It bends and morphs men through the compromises they make."

Bard stared at the empty bowl in his hands for a while.

"What would Girion have done?"

"Do not ask such questions. Girion’s path is not your own. There is no knowing what your ancestor would have done in your shoes. He might have done better or worse, we would never know."

"Elves are more cryptic than I thought," Bard laughed.

"To mortals, perhaps."

Bard fiddled with the empty bowl for a bit, scraping its wooden surface against the coarse floor of the underground chamber.

“May I ask you one more question?”

“Are all human children so curious?”

“I’m not a child,” Bard challenged.

The elf did not deem that with an answer.

“What was that magic you used earlier? Or is that another secret of your people, which you would not discuss?”

The elf seemed put off by the question, but nevertheless he answered.

“It was no magic. I have scars, which cannot be seen, unless they are remembered. What you saw were old battle wounds, healed but not forgotten.”

Bard’s eyes widened.

“And what made them?”

“A dragon,” the elf said with finality.

Bard was certain the elf was pulling his leg, however he resigned himself to never finding out.

"Masego wants to speak with you," a young refugee girl interrupted his thoughts.

"Yeah, I'm coming," Bard said offhandedly. "I need to get going. How are you feeling, are you better now?"

The elf nodded.

"I will be back in a few days," Bard said as he got up, gathering the used bows. "Just stay here and listen to what Masego says. You can trust him."

Bard quickly cleaned the used bows with some ashes and left them in their appropriate place before hurrying to the refugee leader.

"Everyone is stationed," Masego said, gesturing to the newly assembled sleeping area in a smaller chamber attached to the main one where the floor and the walls were drier and the hauling draft less noticeable.

"Now. How are we going to arrange your friend? Do you think you can convince him to sleep with the rest?"

"I won’t require sleep lodgings," the elf said from behind Bard.

The teen turned around and looked at the elf curiously - he hadn't realized the elf had followed him.

"Why? Are you some kind of prince, too good to sleep with the rest of us?” Masego teased.

“I do not trust your kind,” the elf said icily.

“Suit yourself,” Masego dismissed.

“I need to get going,” Bard said. “It will be dark soon and the catacombs will become too dangerous to navigate. I need to leave quickly if I want to get back to Camp.”

“Are you sure that's a good idea? The Master is going to suspect something. You've been gone all day," Masego protested.

"He has not much reason to suspect me."

“He has every reason to suspect you, whether he will or not.”

“It’s a bad idea,” Nituna, the warrior approached, having overheard their conversation.

“My sister is right,” the other one, whose name Bard still did not know added. “Stay here, young bowman. Don’t throw your life away.”

“I can’t stay,” Bard protested. “If I don’t return before nightfall, then my guilt would be unquestionable! Not only will I lose my job, I will also be wanted in all of New Dale and its surroundings!”

“You can stay here for as long as you need,” Masego said. “If my gut feeling is right, you are already wanted.”

“I wore a mask - no one knows who I am. No one would suspect me.”

The refugee leader and the two former slaves looked at each other. Bard quickly glanced at the elf, who stood a bit to the side, his gaze unreadable.

“You are stupid,” Nituna stomped her foot.

“You don’t understand,” Bard said desperately. “I need that job! I have people to take care of!”

He glanced back to the elf, whose eyes were on him.

“I’m going,” Bard said with finality and turned his back on them. “I will be back in a few days.”

With that the boy pushed through the crowd and disappeared into the darkening tunnels.

The two warrior sisters shook their heads and returned to tend to their people. Masego remained looking after the youth, who was long since gone from their sight.

"Why did you let him leave?" the elf’s voice surprised the older man. "They will know it was him. He will be killed, or worse, and he will give away your hideout’s location."

"If you were so concerned, why didn't you say anything," Masego answered.

“It is not my place to interfere with the fate of your people,” the elf said.

“Are you not a part of this world then?” the older man asked and when the elf remained sullenly silent, he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter-full of exposition but it needed to be done - I wanted to put more back story into the events. All the promised action and plot is coming back next chapter, which I will write as soon as possible! Hope you enjoyed this bit! And once again, thank you for reading and special thanks to everyone who left me your comments on the last chapter - you are the best :D


	6. A Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am super happy to announce that this story has now got a beta - Sky_sky has joined me and thanks to her help this fic will be getting a lot better :D She edited all the previous chapters as well, so if you have been wanting to refresh on the plot, now would be a great time to do so ^^ Don't worry, we avoided making any major plot changes, so those of you who don't want to re-read won't miss anything important. But yeah, a big thank you to Sky_sky!!!
> 
> And once again, special thanks to everyone who commented on the previous chapter - you guys are the best! Your comments make my day <3
> 
> Ok, without further ado, here is the new chapter! It took a lot of work from both of us, so we really hope you enjoy it!
> 
> PS, made a map of the places in this story: http://orig10.deviantart.net/2536/f/2015/303/c/b/map2_by_alikuu-d9exny6.jpg

_Art by Plotbunniesincolour_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was dark when Bard managed to go back to the streets of New Dale. He made sure no one saw him exit the catacombs and hurried to return to the Master’s camp. He wasn’t foolish enough to hope the elf and the refugees had been wrong about how transparent his involvement in the slave market had been. However he hoped that there wouldn’t be enough incriminating evidence against him for the Master to do anything drastic.

Surely no one truly believed a boy like Bard capable of anything of the scale of what he pulled off on that day. The rescue of the slaves and the elf had come as a surprise to even Bard himself.

Suddenly four guards, bearing the Newdalion crest, blocked his way and the youth scrambled to a sudden stop. As soon as he saw their grim expressions his spirit plunged with dread.

“You’re coming with us,” the guard on the left declared as another, in front of him, put a hand on Bard’s scrawny shoulder.

“I’m not here illegally.” Bard protested.

He received no answer, even as he kept insisting that they had no reason to be arresting him.

Seeing that resisting was futile, Bard finally quieted down and began walking on his own, in the direction he was being led.

Strangely, he was not taken to the lower city levels where the prisons and barracks were located. Instead he was lead to the higher city levels, passing decorated gates and walking through parks and marble-laid squares, which he’d never had the chance to see before. The top two levels of New Dale were restricted from the general public, as they were a place reserved for the ruling class and government business.

During the day, the alabaster towers and the magnificent view, which they gave over the Dale Valley must have been breath-taking, however it was night and all Bard could see were isolated lights scattered over the dark lands below them. Somewhere to the north east was Esgarothie, the little town where his mother and siblings lived. He wondered if their eyes were turned towards the illuminated spires of New Dale that night. What they would think if they could see him in that moment, dragged by Newdalion’s guards to answer for his reckless and illegal, albeit righteous behavior?

His mother would surely have cried that his father’s foolish fire had passed onto him, instead of her steadier temperament and longsuffering calm. His younger sister would have been silent and resilient in her pain, his brother would have raged against the injustice and his youngest might have tried to rescue him…

Bard hoped for their sakes that he could somehow get out of the mess he had started and continue to take care of them, because without the money he sent, they were going to fall into extreme poverty and Bard shuddered to think what that could have forced each one of them into.

Bard’s dark musings turned into utter awe, when he found himself led to the high steps of the imposing Palace of New Dale. He had only ever glimpsed it from afar, usually on clear days when the rays of sunshine reflected against its polished white stone and gold inlays, and the reflected light could be glimpsed from as far as his home town. Bard did not have enough time to marvel at its dark domes and arches, because he was hauled inside; through halls with ceilings so high, the illumination of the lamps did not reach them. There was an eerie silence there at night, one that was said to have settled since the line of Girion had ceased to inhabit this palace’s walls.

It had been four centuries since Harvy II, the last King of New Dale had fallen in battle and Simeon Fiost, his esteemed general, became Steward of New Dale. When taking the title, Simeon changed his name to Newdalion and started the dynasty of the Stewards of Dale. Upon his ascension, Simeon Newdalion placed a second throne, one step below the Throne of Dale and named it the Stewards’ Chair. He claimed that one day the line of Girion would rule once again and that only the true heir of Girion would sit on the King’s Throne.

As noble as Simeon Newdalion had been, his family had become corrupted by wealth and blinded by lust for power. To this day no one had publicly dared to go against the first Steward’s word and sat on the King’s Throne, but many had made it clear that they despised their ancestor for creating that rule and writing it into the Constitution. Many also wondered if New Dale wasn’t waiting in vain for an heir of a dead dynasty to return, but Bard knew better. His father had told him the story of a bastard son, older brother of Harvy II, sent away by a jealous Queen and stricken from the history books. The man had preserved Girion’s blood and passed it down all those generations to Bard himself.

The current Steward of New Dale was no other than Graham Newdalion, the last of a once abundant family. Power struggles and attempts to keep the power within the family had made its numbers dwindle and its line dirtied with incest and kin-slaying. At present, the only other Newdalion surviving was Graham’s old and sick mother, who some believed had murdered her husband in order to pass the right to rule to her son. Some questioned Graham’s parentage, because he looked nothing like his dim-witted, ugly father. Instead he was comely, even though he was of small stature, and had an uncharacteristic silvery shade of ash blonde hair.

Bard was lead through ceremonial halls and wide staircases to the tall doors of the Throne room where Lord Graham Newdalion sat in the the Steward’s Chair. When Bard forgot to immediately kneel the guards roughly shoved down to his knees.

“No need for that,” the lord chided softly. His voice had a powerful quality to it and his figure and manner were deeply imposing, even when he tried to keep his tone light.

He was a young man, not older than thirty, but the responsibilities of power and the struggles to maintain it had made his countenance weary and stern, like a much older man’s.

The guards nodded and walked away to take their silent positions by the walls.

Standing up from his chair, Graham Newdalion approached the boy.

“You can get up now,” the Steward said amiably. “I’m sorry for my guards. I did not inform them of what business I need you here. It’s my fault I did not remind them to treat you as a guest. You have my sincerest apologies.”

Apprehensively Bard rose from his knees and stood at just about eye level with Newdalion. One thing that the Steward was famous for, apart from his go-getter attitude, was his small stature, which made him just about two inches taller than the still growing Bard. However those who had underestimated or undermined Graham Newdalion had learned their mistake the hard way.  

“How can I be of service, my Lord?” the youth asked, unnerved by the closeness of the one who held nearly absolute power in New Dale.

“Introduce yourself, for starters.” Newdalion said with a predatory smile.

“Bard of Esgarothie Town, my Lord."

“Esgarothie Town, huh?” the lord raised an eyebrow. “What is a young man from Esgarothie doing in New Dale so late in the evening?”

“I work here,” Bard said.

“May I know where?”

“In the Smillwood Pottery shop.” Bard said without hesitation.

“Funny,” Newdalion drawled. “You don’t strike me as a pottery apprentice. You must be new, I am sure.”

The youth swallowed thickly and remained silent with his gaze on the floor.

“Quite new, sir.” Bard said.

“Come now, Bard,” the man crooned as he rounded on the boy, coming well into his personal space. “It doesn’t become you to lie and it offends me. Do you want to offend me?”

“I work for the Master.” Bard blurted, flushing red.

“That’s better. You made the right decision. There’s no point in lying to me.” the Steward’s voice turned steely and his smile disappeared. “Now, as much as I’m enjoying getting to know you, I am a busy man and I have a few more appointments to attend to this evening. Therefore I am only going to ask you this once. What do you think you were doing today at the slave market, shooting down the canopy and helping those slaves escape?”

At that Bard’s eyes shot up and meet the man’s calculating greyish-green ones.

“Don’t look so surprised. A lot of people saw you, and your disguise left much to be desired. I take it was an impulse decision. Not a very wise one. Do you think I don’t know where those slaves are right now?”

Bard looked at him with a mixture of helplessness, fear and surprise.

“Of course I know of the catacombs,” Newdalion crooned as he leant even closer to the young man’s face. “What kind of a Steward would I be, if I didn’t know my own city’s history?”

“What do you want from me?” Bard asked, because he was certain that if Newdalion wanted to convict him, he did not need to summon for him for a chat. Heck, Newdalion was the law - he could order someone like Bard executed without explanation and no one would even question it.

Graham’s smile returned to reveal all of his teeth and he slowly turned around and accented the steps back to the Steward’s Chair where he sat down and let the youth quiver for a several tense moments before he spoke again.

“I was impressed with you today. Not just your skill with the bow and arrow, but also how you managed to pull off this entire slave rescue mission on your own. I think those skills are wasted with the Master. He is no more than a petty criminal, destined to squander in the shadows of bigger men and gorge himself on their droppings.”

Bard remained silent as the Steward continued.

“I could order those catacombs purged tonight. Not even one of your precious slave friends and beggars who gather down there would survive. I have a map of all the exits, all the vents.  I know about every little hole in those tunnels. And tomorrow I would be a hero to the good, concerned citizen of New Dale, who would have been made free of an infection they did not even know existed beneath their streets.”

“And why won’t you?” Bard asked quietly, making the lord’s smile turn wolfish.

“Because you impressed me.” Newdalion said. “I will let you keep your slaves and won’t make any move against them. I don’t really care what they do in the catacombs. They can remain in those filthy tunnels as long as they don’t come outside and start begging on my streets.”

At that Bard looked up disbelievingly.

“Also, I think someone of your talent would be better suited in my court rather than on the streets or in the dungeons. I can see you by my side, Bard. You could become someone worthwhile. Isn’t that what you want?”

“What’s the catch?” Bard asked.

“I’d like a show of good faith from you.” Newdalion said. “Something small, something minor. Just to prove that I can trust you. I left the slave market today somewhat disappointed. I wanted to have an elf, but that one escaped to god-knows-where. If you could find him and bring him back to me, I will give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Power, wealth, security… Prove your loyalty to me and I will make you my right-hand-man. You could become a general, a politician, a spy; whatever you wish to be.”

Bard’s could no longer hold the Steward’s intense gaze and he looked down at his feet.

“You have until tomorrow night to think about my offer. If you are the man, whom I think you could be, then that would be plenty of time for you to bring back the elf to me. Until then, all exits of the catacombs will be monitored, and if anyone tries to leave, they will be killed on sight.”

Bard swallowed hard and nodded, feeling his frame begin to shake.

“Also, a word of advice. It might not be in your best interest to return to the Master’s camp tonight. I think he is very displeased with you.”

With that, the guards took a hold of Bard and escorted him not too gently out of the Throne Room and back into the night.

…………………..

It was late when Bard found his way back to the Great Hall of the catacombs: after scrambling through pitch black corridors with little more than his hands and memory to guide the way. Urgency and fear greater than that of the dark propelled him forward, but it was no small miracle that he did not become hopelessly lost in the maze beneath the city.

"Who's there?" The night guard thrust an electric lamp toward Bard's face to identify him. When she recognized him, she let him though, even though her surprise was immense.

"I need to speak to Masego," Bard urged. "Where is he?"

Unsurprisingly Masego was not sleeping - he was crouching over some papers and notes under the dim light of a lamp with a deep frown on his face.

"What happened?" he sighed with a look that suggested that Bard’s return was no surprise.

Once Bard told him his encounter with the Steward and the lord’s terms for leaving the refugees alone, Masego sunk into a dark contemplation.

“I am so sorry,” Bard said. “This is all my fault. But please, don’t allow them to take the elf! He…”

“Shut up for a second, I’m trying to think.” Masego growled. He massaged his grey temples forlornly before exhaling a pained sigh.

After some contemplation, Masego decided to call for everyone to be awoken to hear the news, despite Bard’s protests.

“Please, Masego! You can’t tell about this! They’ll want to sacrifice the elf, in order to buy their own safety!”

“I’ve heard enough from you, Bard. Be a man and learn to deal with the consequences of your actions! What are you hoping for? You think you can hide this? Until when? Until tomorrow morning when they would want to go outside? This is out of the question - they must know.”

Bard shut up and followed Masego feeling like a condemned man. His actions had endangered everyone and Masego was right - they had to know.

Once everyone was awake and gathered, Bard spotted the elf amongst them, standing a bit to the side. He looked much better than a few hours earlier and he had let his long, pale golden hair fall loose around his shoulders once again. Bard found it hard not to stare. Guilt and regret mixed in the youth's heart. He tried to keep his eyes away, but they somehow always landed on the elf, until he noticed that his gaze was returned and looked away.

“Everyone,” Masego began, “I have news. This is not going to sound good, but I want you to know, that as dark as what I’m about to say is, there is still hope. Newdalion knows our location. He has barricaded all entrances and would kill on sight anyone who tries to leave the catacombs. He has also threatened to exterminate us all. He does all of this, because he is trying to barter our safety against the life of one of our own.”

A murmur of dismay and fear started but Masego lifted his hands and the crowd silenced. Bard watched the elf’s face. It did not change, but something in his expression seemed to fall. The youth had no doubt, the elf had figured out what was happening. If possible, Bard’s gut twisted even further with guilt.

“He has promised that he will allow us to stay here and be safe once more under the radar of the city, if we surrender this one person,” Masego continued. “I am sure many of you are already guessing that I am talking about the elf, who came here today, along with many of you. I am also sure a lot of you are thinking we should surrender him immediately. However we won’t. And I will tell you why…”

“What do you mean we won’t?” a crippled man cried out from the crowd. “Just give them the elf and be over with it! He’s not even one of us!”

“Have you forgotten the rules of this place, Vaga?” Masego boomed. “It’s the first rule I established and the most important one - everyone under the surface and residing in these tunnels is equal. Age, gender, colour, race, disability… These are things scorned by the outside, but here everyone has found a safe heaven. You should know -” Masego gestured to the man’s missing leg, which had ultimately been the reason for him to end up in the tunnels and under the refugee leader’s care.

“If we were to start cowering before the power of Newdalion, shouldn’t we surrender not just the elf but also all of those who came here as freed slaves? Is that what some of you think we should do? No. I will not surrender a single soul in this room. If anyone does not agree with my rules, they can leave this chamber and my protection right now. Because here we remain as equals.”

“To turn on each other is what they want us to do,” Masego cried. “If we begin to segregate, this place would cease to be what it is - a beacon of hope for those who have no other place to go. They are trying to blackmail us and if we break and show weakness now they will never leave us alone. Newdalion will not stop, until he destroy the spirit of this place and make us betray each other until there is no one left!”

“And how long until your supplies run out or Newdalion send his men in here to search every corner until they find me?” the elf’s interruption surprised everyone and suddenly all eyes were on his tall, proud figure. His gaze was cleared and he seemed to glow with determination, standing out amongst the humans like a ray of starlight, even though he wore the same undyed clothes as everyone else. “You are a fair man, Masego, and this place you have created will remain a beacon of hope. You don’t have to surrender anyone. I will go willingly.”

Everyone seemed to be at a loss of words after the elf’s statement.

"No," Masego said. "There will be no sacrifices."

“I have an idea,” Bard chimed in suddenly. “Newdalion offered me a reward for delivering the elf to him. If I were to pretend to have agreed to his terms, then he would owe me the safety of everyone in the catacombs, as he promised.”

“Gain his trust and you might be able to get close enough to him to understand his weakness,” the elf agreed. “No ruler is without opposition. There must be those in his court who would be willing to side against him. Find them and make them your allies. That is the only way you could protect the people here and buy them a better future.”

“And find a way to fulfill my promise to you,” Bard added. “I will not leave you in chains. Even if I don’t achieve anything else, I will find a way to free you. I gave you my word.”

The elf silently nodded his agreement and Masego shook his head.

“This plan is so crazy, it might actually work. As much as I don’t like it, it seems to be our only chance. But who knew that Bardie had it in him?”

“You said I should own up to the consequences of my actions,” Bard said. “I will do just that.”

The old man tapped Bard on the shoulder amiably and smiled.

“Let’s just hope you’re made of tougher stuff than you look then.”

…

After the gathering was over, Bard, Masego, the elf and the two ex-slave warriors, who had distinguished themselves as the ones in charge of the newcomers, sat together to discuss their strategy for the next day. Masego, Nituna and her younger sister Harisa, made it clear that they were going to aid Bard in his attempt to save the elf no matter what it took. However, for the time being, Bard had to play along and bring the elf to Newdalion to accept his terms. It was obvious that the Lord knew the elf was in the catacombs. His only reason to ask for Bard’s help in getting him was most likely that he wanted to test Bard’s loyalty and get the job done as quickly and quietly as possible.

“The thing about corrupted men: they cannot understand innocence.” the elf said. “This lord cannot imagine a reason why Bard wouldn’t betray me for a reward. And if he thinks he understands Bard’s motivations, then he would feed him money and power, in order to buy his loyalty and feel safe in his company. That is truly all we need for this plan to work.”

“So Bard will deliver you to him, secure our safety for now, and this will buy us all some time to figure out how to deal with this mess.” Harisa said. “But are you going to be ok in the meantime? I am not sure how long this whole rescue mission is going to take.”

“Do not concern yourself with me. I will survive.” the elf said and no one had the heart to further comment or discuss what was on everyone’s minds. They all thought that Newdalion would try to force himself on the elf and it was no pleasant idea, however they all understood that there was little other choice in the matter. Staying was ultimately going to yield the same result, but with far less chance of rescue.

“I will do everything in my power to find a way to save you quickly,” Bard assured once again. His heart was filled with guilt and he felt responsible for everything that would happen to the elf once Newdalion had him.

“You have already done a lot for me, Bard,” the elf said turning to the youth with sincerity. “I have not really expressed my gratitude, but you have my appreciation for your honest attempts to divert my fate. Had it not been for you, I would have already been in Newdalion’s clutches and I would have not found allies here. You have given me hope, and a chance. That means a lot to me.”

Bard was struck by the words and remained silent, unable to find a proper reply to such a profound expression of gratitude, which he did not believe he deserved.

“You are one of us now,” Masego said to the elf. “And we will get you out one way or another. I just wonder if something even bigger isn’t at work here. I’ve started to think that there is a bit more to little Bardie over there.”

The refugee leader turned to Bard as well.

“Lad, if you manage to find allies in the court, you could really make a difference for everyone here and for this city. Do you understand that?”

“Has he not told you that he is a descendant of Girion?” the elf said making both Masego and Bard look absolutely shocked.

“What?” the old man rasped.

“Descendant of whom?” Nituma asked.

“Girion of Dale, whose line of Kings established this city. Bard is the rightful ruler of New Dale,” the elf explained calmly.

“How...” Masego looked between Bard and the elf with a disbelieving expression which then began to split into an incredulous smile. “That’s it, I’m done. Elves, Kings… I don’t think there is a place for old Masego here anymore… I’m just going to go sit over there…”

Chuckling the refugee leader stood up, pretending to leave, but Bard caught his hand and pulled him back into his seat.

“Well, won’t you say anything, Bardie? I mean, King Bard?” Masego laughed with a soft expression of hope in his eyes.

“I don’t know what to say…” Bard said, barely recovering of the unwanted reveal.

“If he is truly entitled to the throne,” Harisa said, “Then everything indeed could change. But do you have any proof?”

“No,” Bard sighed. “The last piece of proof I ever had burned down with my house two years ago. There is no more proof of my lineage, except for the elf’s word.”

“And how does he know?” Nituna asked.

“I recognised his ancestor in him,” the elf said solemnly.

“You knew Girion?” Masego asked raising an eyebrow.

“Indeed, for I am Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Woodland Elves. I fought alongside Girion in the Battle of the Five Armies and became his friend. If I had ever seen one of his blood, it would be Bard, and for this I am not mistaken.”

Bard’s jaw dropped. Thranduil Oropherion. King of the Elves. The elf he had saved was Thranduil. Thrills ran up and down the youth’s arms and his mind almost exploded with the new information.

“Will I be damned.” Masego muttered under his breath, glancing out the corner of his eyes at Thranduil, who had at once began to shine even brighter and more regal as if he had reclaimed his pride by speaking his name and his title. “If that is not a sign that our stars are changing, I don’t know what would be. Bard and Thranduil… Kings of Men and Elves. I wonder if  this is what is needed to bring change to this place, cleanse the suffering and injustices that have festered in New Dale for centuries and do right by its people?”

“Perhaps it is," Thranduil said. “I had a friend who used to say he does not believe in chance - and neither do I. There is likely more at play here than we know.”

...

After sending the boy away, the Steward of New Dale took the familiar route up the winding stairs of the Palace’s solitary watch tower, which held the highest vantage point of the entire city and arguably the second highest in the World after the great spire of Minas Falas. There was a chamber in that tower, guarded by multiple security measures and many locked doors, which was only for his and her eyes to see.

Newdalion hoped that he would find her there, because he knew that She would not be summoned and that he was only allowed to meet her when she wanted to be seen.

He did not name her, nor the other thing that was guarded by that chamber, not even in his thoughts. She had taught him to guard his mind, because sorcerer’s magic and psychic readers could easily discern the thoughts of the foolish and the matter of their interest was just so delicate and dangerous, it was not worth the risk.

New Dale was filled with spies, and Graham Newdalion knew that many opposed his rule and despised the Steward’s line. A history of bloody violence and spilled blood, which would not be forgiven, nor forgotten, had brought his legacy to its current state of rapid decline and loss of influence. But Graham was not like his predecessors. He would not let their mistakes define his destiny.

Slowly Graham pushed through the final door, infused by her magic, which would allow only open to the ones whom she permitted. And indeed, in the round fire-lit room, (for she hated the electrical lights, which had brought his line its fortune), her figure stood next to the pedestal in it’s very centre.

She wore a long, draped, black dress, which gathered tightly around her slender waist and floated behind her as she walked. Her long wavy red hair fell in tantalizing curls down her back, all the way to the middle of her thighs and her blue eyes glistened with mischief at the sight of him.

Only once the door closed behind him could he dare to think her name - Nessamelda.

The witch smirked and inclined her head in acknowledgement to the Steward as he walked over to the object that had brought them together.

“Any progress?” she asked. Her voice was sweet like honey and deep like the earth.

“Yes,” Graham said. “I found the one responsible for the elf’s escape. One of the Master’s brats. I already spoke to him. He will deliver the elf to us.”

“Well done,” Nessamelda said, a small smile spreading on her face.

Graham’s cheeks flared. Her compliments were a rare pleasure. His heart swelled for more.

“I am curious, how will that creature be of use?” he asked.

Nessamelda had wanted an elf for some time and Graham had desperately tried to find one - to no avail - until this lucky morning when one was delivered to his city by fate itself. However the witch had never revealed its purpose.

“Sweetest,” the witch’s tone turned into a mock warning. “If I told you all my secrets, you would cease to find me so alluring.”

“I would never want that to happen,” Graham laughed and dismissed the topic.

Nessamelda was the only one he trusted. So far she always had known what she was doing and Graham had no doubt that it would be the case again.

Turning his attention to the display pedestal them, the Steward beheld the large black egg, which it held. It was the size of a wine barrel, heavier than a rock of the same size. Its surface was scaly and perpetually warm, betraying the presence of slumbering life inside.

Taking a step forward he caressed the egg’s rough surface lovingly.

“It’s high time for you to come out,” he spoke to the creature inside. “I have waited a long time for this.”

“Bring me the elf and the time of waiting will come to an end,” Nessamelda said. “The right to rule will be legitimately yours, Graham. There will be no more to oppose you or question your power. This is your ultimate trump card. Your destiny.”

“And then?” he turned towards her. “Once I am the ruler of this world, and everything that it has to offer is mine, will you consider my offer?”

Her red lips quirked up slightly, yet she did not say anything. She only turned away and left, heading to the staircase, which lead to the top of the tower, her private domain.

…

It was well past midnight and everyone was asleep, except for Bard. He could not find rest; his mind was swirling around everything that had happened during the day. After several hours of restless tossing and turning on the cold hard floor, reluctantly he extracted himself from the dirty rags, which the refugees used for bedding, and sat up. It was very dark in the Main Chamber, with the exception of a few lamps, everything was plunged into pitch black.

As his eyes scanned the room and his mind was preoccupied with its demons, Bard’s eyes caught something curious. Sitting near one of the last lamps at the edge of the darkness was none other but Thranduil. His pale gold hair glistening in the dim light easily made him stand out.

Slowly, Bard picked himself up and treaded the distance of the vast Main Chamber to place himself where the Elven King sat. It was chilly without the protection of the rags and the body heat of the other humans near him, but the draft did not seem to bother the elf.

“What are you looking at?” Bard asked when the Elven King did not look up from the small lamp in front of him.

“Hm?” Thranduil seemed to be waking up from deep thought.

“Sorry.” Bard rubbed his hands in his clothes nervously. He wasn’t certain what he was apologizing for, but he felt that he needed to.

“Don’t be,” Thranduil said and then, “What’s on your mind, Bard?”

“I can’t sleep.” the youth admitted. When the elf did not say anything he elaborated. “I’m worried about what’s going to happen. About everything - I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“There is little use in worrying. You should rest. You will need all of your strength tomorrow.”

“I can’t,” Bard said with frustration. “May I… May I sit with you here?”

Thranduil nodded and Bard settled down beside him around the lamp.

“You’ve never seen electricity before, have you?” Bard asked, gesturing towards the lamp.

“No, this is the first time I’ve seen such a lamp,” the Elven King said. “How does it work?”

“It’s pretty simple,” Bard said, glad for the distraction. “You see this big thing? That’s a battery. It stores the energy, which the lamp uses to give light. Batteries are more important than the lamps themselves. Anyone can make bulbs, but how batteries are made is a well kept secret. They make them here, in New Dale. This technology is the city’s biggest export.”

“Is it some form of magic?” Thranduil asked.

“I don’t think it’s magic,” Bard said. “I think someone came up with a special material, which can store energy, and that there is nothing magical about it. After all, electricity, which is what we call this energy, is very simple. You connect the plus with the minus and it moves in a circuit. They say soon we could use electricity for bigger things as well. But for now it’s impractical to power anything bigger than a lamp with these.”

Bard picked up the lamp and put it to the side, so he could show Thranduil the large, square battery underneath it. It was the size of a small box and weight at least 5 kg. Its surface was covered in worn labels, for it had been recharged and reused many times before the refugees found it.

Bard handed it to Thranduil.

“Who makes these batteries?” the elf asked while weighing the object in his hands.

“They aren’t made by a single person. They are made in a factory… It’s like a line of workers each of whom do different small tasks and together they assemble a huge amount of these.”

The Elven King’s brow seized and his eyes narrowed in what Bard perceived as incomprehension.

“It’s a large brick building, a bit to the East of New Dale. A lot of people from the surrounding villages and even from the poorer levels of New Dale go to work there every day. The big problem is that it pollutes everything around it. Whatever these batteries are made of is highly toxic and workers often get sick, but they get paid very well and it’s hard to get a job there.”

“You have tried to work there.” Thranduil observed.

“I did, but they would not take me.”

Thranduil regarded him critically.

“You place little value in yourself. If you want to be a leader, you must start to realize your own worth first. You cannot keep throwing yourself away.”

“I am not!”

“Yes, you are.” Thranduil raised his tone and Bard was stunned into silence. “I understand that your reasons are noble - you want to provide for your family. But when a great man finds himself faced with an impossible choice, he creates his own options.”

Bard gaped at the ageless being a bit longer until he looked away bitterly.

“You seem to forget, I am not my famous ancestor. I am not a king, nor a price, nor anything at all. The more I learn the more I think I would never be able to live up to the ideal. I am just Bard, not some great leader. I make hard choices, because it’s all I can do, and I am hardly worth whatever you seem to think I am.”

“Just this morning you thought yourself an heir of Girion and I thought you lower than an Orc,” the Elven King said. “Yet what you did today changed the course of this city’s future. I know it must frighten you now, you would be a fool if you were not afraid. But do not let your fear cripple you and guide your perception.”

Once Thranduil had finished his speech, Bard wanted to protest more, but decided to keep his mouth shut and be grateful for the words that the Elven King had given to him. After some more time spent in companionable silence, he felt somehow relieved. His heart was finally starting to calm and his body became heavy with sleepiness.

“I think I should get back to bed now.” Bard said getting up. He paused and looked at the Elven King who was once again lost in thought while staring at the lamp. “Thank you.”

Thranduil looked up and met his gaze. For a second, Bard’s heart skipped a beat when those blue eyes, which seemed to glow with eternal light met his own hazel ones. The teenager didn’t know what he had just felt, so he dismissed it as nothing more than tiredness and awe at the ethereal being he had the incredible luck to meet. With no more words exchanged, Bard hurried to get into his little corner and catch some much needed rest.


	7. The Palace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is another long chapter for you! I hope you guys didn't feel the wait was too long. Special thanks to Sky_sky for her contribution as beta for this fic - without her corrections and suggestions this chapter wouldn't have been what it is :D (You can check out her own writing, she's on AO3 ;)  
> Once again, big thanks to all of you for sticking with this fic and for those of you who leave me your comments - I love f**** you <3 Now on to the chapter.....

_Art by Plotbunniesincolour_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The warm polished wood felt familiar under Bard’s bare soles. He could hear the planks creak underneath his feet as he walked and the never-ending chorus of frogs and insects outside. It was all so familiar, like the sound of Little Esgaroth’s small waves hitting the lakes bank just outside their house.

(No, that wasn’t right. Their house had burned down. Brent had set it alight, Bard was sure of it! Brent had always been jealous of his Da and everyone knew of his rivalry for the love of Mother. Bard had seen him that day, Brent threw the torch, Bard didn’t imagine it...)

His Da was sitting on his usual spot by the window overlooking the lake. He was carving a miniature wooden boat. Bard’s room was filled with them. Sometimes they went to the bank together to let them sail.

(Thank the heavens, his Da was fine. It must have all been a bad dream…)

“Wanna hear a story?” his father asked, putting down the wood and tools. He tapped the place on his thigh where Bard had once liked to sit; when he was a child - and suddenly Bard was no older than seven and fit perfectly on his father's leg.

“Have I ever told you that your great, great, great grandfather was no other than Girion of Dale?” his father began a familiar tune.

“Da, I’ve heard this one thousands of times already,” Bard complained and weirdly his voice was his own, not the voice of a child.

“Ok, ok, how about this one then… King Hador was still a prince when he met Cassandra, a beautiful stable girl with whom he fell in love…”

“Da, last time Cassandra was a blacksmith… You making all of these stories up, aren’t you?” Bard complained in exasperation. He had heard about the bastard son, which King Hador had with this Cassandra before King Harvy was born. The son, who supposedly connected Bard’s family to Girion by blood.

The story was slightly different every time and Bard had long since started to doubt it. Their family was not poor but they were hardly well of and with three more children to take care of, his Da had put off sending Bard to the Academy where all of his friends had already went. Therefore stories of their kingly origins did little more than irritate him on most days.

“Of course I'm not making this up, it is the truth!” his Da insisted. “When you get older and learn to read you can take a look at the family scroll for yourself. It’s true, the record is not very detailed and it does not say what Cassandra’s occupation was, but that’s where imagination comes into play.”

“I am tired of children’s stories Da! How do you even know this scroll is authentic?” Bard insisted with annoyance. “Anyone could write up a scroll like that and invent a connection to King Girion or Aragorn of Gondor or whoever they wish.”

“It’s true, but ours is a real one. I know it in my heart." his father smiled reassuringly and tapped his chest.

(“The scroll, the scroll is inside!”)

(“Da, NO!!!")

“In that case, when will I become King of New Dale?” Bard teased.

They both laughed but then his father’s tone became serious.

“If I am being perfectly honest with you, son, most likely you will never be King of New Dale. You are right, this scroll is not enough evidence, and even if it were, the Newdalions have power and they would not let a self-proclaimed King inherit the title. They would rather kill our entire family than welcome you as their King.”

Just as Bard had thought.

“However,” his Da’s hand on his shoulder was soft and reassuring. “You will be King here. This household and your family are your stronghold. Protect your mother, your brother and sisters and you would be more worthy of a crown than most sitting on a throne today.”

“Protect them? From what? Won't you always take care of us?" Bard asked uncomprehendingly. A really bad feeling was starting to form into his gut and he felt the dream turning into a nightmare.

The curtains were catching fire and it was spreading all over the living room. The wooden chair upon which his Da sat was on fire as well and it was engulfing the man as he sat there calmly. Bard felt like he was drifting away from his father, as if someone was slowly pulling him back.

"Da, you have to get out of there!” Bard said with dread and urgency. “We have to leave!!!"

"I must stay here with the scroll," his father said serenely as fire spread over his flesh, burning whole chunks of it as Bard began to scream and cry in helplessness. Perhaps there was still time to convince his father to leave. Perhaps this time he could save him...

"No, we must go, it doesn't matter, I don't care about the scroll, I don't want to be King!"

Bard reached for his father’s hand and as he pulled it peeled off from the man's body, turning to ashes and cinder in the horrified boys' hands.

"Your family is your responsibility now. Take care of them."

"No, Da, please don't leave me!!!" Bard screamed through the smoke and fire.

…

“Lad, it’s time.” Masego’s worn hand on his shoulder woke him up.

  
Slowly Bard sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to shake away the nightmare and make sense of where he was. Streaks of cold daylight were coming through high vents in the ceiling, the only difference between day and night in the perpetual gloom of the catacombs.

A dreadful feeling hung over the young man as well as bitterness as he relived his dream in his head and tried to distinguish between what was real and what wasn’t. His father was dead, that part hadn’t been a dream and it still pained him deeply despite two years had passed since that fateful fire. Strangely, in Bard’s dreams his Da was always alive and they felt so vivid and so right, much more so than the painful reality. Sometimes the teenager wondered if he would ever completely recover from the pain of losing him.

Pushing the dream to the back of his mind, Bard remembered with a sudden anxiety that the day ahead was going to be a hard one. He wasn’t sure if he was prepared for the trials to come, however he still went through the motions of getting ready and joined Masego and the elf, who he still had trouble believing was the legendary King Thranduil of Mirkwood, near an empty space in the tunnels.

The two stood in a patch of sunlight coming from a large opening in the ceiling, talking quietly until Bard joined them. Once he came over their conversation ended and they turned their attention to the youth.

“Are you ready for today?” Masego questioned.

“As ready as I would ever be.” Bard said and he glanced at the Elven King who stared down at him with an unreadable expression.

King Thranduil was dressed in a borrowed cape, which covered most of his figure from shoulders to ankles. The hood was thrown back and his pale golden hair glistened in like white gold against the cool morning sunlight.

“Are you ready?” Bard asked to the elf before he lost his courage.

Thranduil nodded.

“Then let’s go.”

...

The journey through the catacombs wasn’t a long one. Bard took the shortest route to the surface and the two figures emerged on a back street in lower New Dale. However, as soon as they came out of the tunnels they were surrounded by Newdalion’s men, who raised their weapons and commanded them to reveal their identities.

Bard grabbed Thranduil’s wrist with one hand and pulled the hood of the borrowed cape away from his blond head, revealing his face to the guards.

“Here is the elf! Seize him!” Bard shouted.

Thranduil feigned struggling, pretending to fight with Bard’s hold on him for a few seconds until he was pushed to the ground by an array of armed men. His body was flattened to the dusty stones and his cheek was pressed to the ground by a guard, who held him by the hair, while others cuffed his hands behind his back. They shook and hit him a few more times with unnecessary brutality, despite having already immobilized him.

Thranduil made sure to let out a few screams and gasps as well as struggle in order to make his capture believable. When he was finally raised to his knees, he threw a hateful look at Bard and hissed through a bloodied lip.

“You said you would help me!”

Bard glanced at him briefly, concern flashing across his features fleetingly, before he looked away.

“Gag him,” the teenager said and someone shoved a cloth in Thranduil’s mouth.

...

The morning sun brightened the Council chamber where the Royal Court was meeting to discuss the current affairs of New Dale. The chancellor's monotonous rambling bored Graham Newdalion and he paid little attention and made little contribution, save for pleasantries and vague, but polite replies.

“This is unacceptable!” Lord Sebastian, a representative of New Dale’s nobility banged his fist against the council’s table. “We cannot have another expansion of the Battery Factory so close to our doors! The factory already poisoned half the animals in Shamrock Shire! We used to have such good hunting seasons there, and now you cannot shoot anything bigger than a mouse! I refuse to vote for the expansion to Esgarothie - if the waste goes into the river it will kill off all of Oakwood’s game!”

“Your nobles can find another sport to occupy your empty days with,” Damian, the Minister of Export and Production countered coolly. He was a man of no aristocratic blood who had risen to the rank thanks to his own capabilities and had little patience for the capricious nature of old money. “The Battery Factory and its production are the future of New Dale. Your foxes are surely a small sacrifice for what’s at stake here.”

“Good riddance, Graham!” Lord Sebastian turned to the Steward and Newdalion lifted his head from the palm of his hand where it had rested for the majority of the meeting. “Where did your father procure these Ministers?! To appoint such commons, with no respect for sport nor tradition...”

“My dear lord Sebastian,” Graham began sweetly, “Sport and tradition are under no threat at all and I think you underestimate the riches, which the new expansion will bring us all. With that kind of investment we can reinvent hunting and other sports to suit the modern tastes and make them even more exciting and accessible than ever before. I have plans for grand events with exotic animals and arenas. Why scurry through woods to find rabbits if you could slay lions and tigers in front of an audience. Imagine the spectacle that could be for the masses…”

Those words got the majority’s approval with the exception of a few troublemakers, as Graham liked to call them, who refused to be placated by money and honeyed words and therefore needed to be eliminated sooner rather than later.

One of those was a plump middle aged Lady, who was the only female representative in the court. And the only reason why Lady Goditha had received a seat of such power was that her eccentric father had been no other than Lord Sommerstone, the greatest real-estate owner of New Dale, whose property included more than half the city. The old Lord had not forced his only daughter to marry as most nobles did, instead allowing her to remain an old maid and sighed off all his inheritance to her upon his passing. Therefore not including his unruly copper-haired daughter on the Council had been out of the question, regardless of the clear disdains some of the other Lords and Ministers held for her.

While different appeals for funding were made, she raised the matter of her Social Reform once again, much to everyone’s dismay. It was well known to all that Lady Goditha had a great passion for philanthropy and had spent almost all of her inheritance on projects such as the said reform, as well as establishing a Children’s Trust, a project to help orphaned and disadvantaged children in New Dale, which she personally managed. But although technically her property included many of New Dale’s key buildings, these were all locked assets, which she could not use unless she sold them to interested buyers. Graham Newdalion being one of such, given he was always looking for ways to increase his influence and remove Court members from their seats. However, Lady Goditha was not stupid and preferred to use her position to demand funding from the State - it was her right as a councilor. Such funding however, was harder and harder to get.

As always when she asked for more money for her projects, Graham politely refused, making an argument about not having enough money to spend on the sick, crippled, orphaned or homeless - those who could not contributing to the economy in any way. His statement was once again approved by the majority. Only a few of the members remained silent and even they did not dare to disagree.

Goditha’s plum face scrunched in helpless anger and the folds of her pale blue dress rustled as she abruptly got up and left the Council chamber. Her pout made several ministers chuckle unpleasantly. Soon after the meeting was concluded, with more funds allocated to industry, and taxes on small businesses raised, everything was in order to fund the construction of the new Battery Factory expansion.

After Newdalion exited the chamber Lady Goditha confronted him in the hallway.

“My Lady?” he raised his eyebrows innocently.

“May I walk with you, Lord Newdalion?” she asked.

He nodded courteously and allowed her to accompany him on his walk through the winding palace passages towards his office.

“I will be blunt with you, Lord Newdalion, I feel that my Social Reform is nothing more than a paper written to be ignored by your Council.”

“My Lady, you are very mistaken,” Newdalion said stopping to turn and face her fully with his most sincere expression. “I value your noble pursuits of helping the disadvantaged and I believe that is exactly the kind of reform New Dale needs. But perhaps this city and this court are yet ready for such drastic changes. It takes a visionary woman, such as yourself, to advocate these concepts of mercy and care, and with time I am sure you would…”  
  
“Don’t you dare belittle me! I am a councilor like any other on this court and this city does not need to wait any further for times to change. Year after year since the Battery Factory’s construction the gap between the wealthy and the poor has been increasing. There is a desperate need for the Social Reform and I will have no more excuses! I want the funding for the Children’s Trust immediately! I cannot feed the children, whom I’ve taken in anymore and you know that.”

“If you cannot feed all of those orphans, then maybe you should consider taking less of them in.” Graham stated matter of factly.

“What do you mean, take less children in?! The whole point of the Children’s Trust and the Social Reform is to guarantee a normal life for every person, indiscriminately of their wealth and status, from cradle to grave. I cannot choose how many to help and leave others on the streets. This is inhuman!”

“Well I suggest you figure it out,” Graham said trying to control his temper. Who was this woman to shout at him? “Perhaps turning another one of your houses into a clinic or a home for the homeless would not be such a good idea. If you need cash so badly, try selling some of your property for a change. I am still interested.”

Lady Goditha took in a large calming breath before she spoke again. Her face was flushing red like her hair and Newdalion couldn’t help but consider her anger a victory.

“The whole point of me being in the Council is that my opinion should matter. My projects are the only ones that are not being taken seriously or funded. If I will be disrespected then I will resign my position entirely and will not cooperate with your government in any other way than business.”

Graham realized that she was threatening to start taxing the use of her property, which would ultimately cost his government a lot of money. He chose to remain calm in the face of her threat.

“That is completely up to you,” he said lightly. “After all, your seat in the Council is voluntary. However, I would like to remind you that for as long as you live in this city state, as a citizen and a landowner, you are still under its governments and the law remains above you. I would hate to see you lose its protection.”

A threat of his own, and not a very well veiled one as well. If she stepped away from the Council, he could always have her framed for some crime and sent to jail with no one to inherit her business. Perhaps it was time to nationalize some of Lady Goditha’s property after all. Whatever she did it would always play right into his hands, because in New Dale he had all the power. It would do her well to remember that.

With these words he turned around and walked away.

“Enjoy the sunny day, Lady Goditha.”

…

Thranduil was walked further and higher into the city’s heart, past heavy gates decorated with gold inlays and marble sculptures - all surrounded by an armed procession of guards bearing the Newdalion crest on their chests.

The higher levels of New Dale were impressive even for the Elven King. It was another cloudless summer day and the sun sun reflected so brightly off the marble-laid streets and buildings that Thranduil had to squint his blue eyes against the glare. They passed through town squares decorated with gardens, fountains and statues, over white bridges hanging over scary heights and winding walks, built on towers of pure marble until they reached the luxurious topmost level of New Dale. The elevation of the city provided a breathtaking view of its surrounding hills, rivers and mountains.

Thranduil could see entire Dale Valley riddled with tiny human villages and towns; the broadleaf forests which framed the valley from the east, the majestic Curtain Mountains, crowned by clouds and shrouded in mists, which stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions.

At the same time, Bard marveled the same view, which showed him dear sights, the river Eal, which winded through the eastern part of the valley and Little Esgaroth, the small lake next to which his house in Esgarothie was built. Nostalgia gripped the young man’s heart and once again he thought of his family and prayed that he would survive the mess he had entered and be able to see them again.

Soon they stood in front of the high steps of the Palace of Dale, which looked even more imposing in the daylight than at night. Its domed vaults were decorated with golden tiles, and its elaborately embellished square headed windows peaked in every direction behind an array of columns and porches.

The Palace’s tower stood some 300 meters off ground level, elevated on the entirety of the tired city of New Dale and its own impressive height. From its top level, it was said that one could glimpse as far as the enchanted forest of Eryn Rhun. Not that anyone besides the current Steward knew that for a fact - for centuries the tower had been closed to any but the members of the ruling dynasty. 

Their procession entered through the palace until they reached the Throne Room where Graham Newdalion awaited them on the Steward’s chair.

“I am thoroughly impressed.” Newdalion announced as he stood up and walked down the steps to greet Bard. "I asked and you delivered promptly. I respect that. Good job, my lad."

The Steward patted the young man’s shoulder amiably before walking over to Thranduil, who stood beaten, chained and gagged in the centre of the guard’s formation.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t try to run again.” he lowered his tone as he spoke to the elf. “It won’t end well, I promise.”

The Steward made a hand gesture for his guards and they immediately marched the elf away without another word.

“Come,” Newdalion motioned to Bard to follow and the youth made an effort not to stare after Thranduil, who was being hauled out of the Throne Room with force as he struggled.

The doors shut heavily with finality, making Bard’s heart clench.

“Follow me to my office, we have a lot to discuss.” Newdalion said as he led the way.

The palace’s interior was lavishly decorated with floors of colourful stone inlays, luxurious solid oak furniture, marble sculptures, heavy drapes, enormous paintings and velvet embroideries. The atmosphere was overwhelming for Bard.

When the pair reached a beautifully carved wooden door, the guards standing on each side opened a wing and let them into a sunlit study. Newdalion lead the way inside his massive study, which had large windows and a balcony overlooking the gardens of the Palace’s inner court.  Warm green leaves trembled in the gentle wind outside and the air was cool and fresh like a summer morning. The room was covered from wall to wall in two storeys of bookshelves with several sliding ladders built into them, to allow access to the higher levels. Bard had never seen so many books in one place, not even in the town library of Esgarothie where he had loved going after school as a child.

“Take a seat.” Newdalion invited him to one of the chairs in front of his desk while the Steward rounded the large oak piece and sat on the leather armchair behind it.

“I am very pleased with you, Bard. I have to admit, I had my doubts about you, but I’m glad to see that they were unfounded.” Newdalion began, steeping his fingers on the desk.

“I hope this means you will honor your side of the agreement.” Bard said, trying to convey confidence, which he did not feel. “I want the catacombs and their inhabitants left in peace.”

“I don’t know where your loyalty to those lowlifes stems from, but I will honor our arrangement.” Newdalion said. “The catacombs and those inside them will remain untouched. From now on, I will consider them under your protection. However, that means I will also keep you responsible for any troubles they may create.”

“Sounds fair.” Bard declared and Newdalion laughed somewhat condescendingly.

“I like your spirit.” he said. “Now, let us discuss your time here. For the beginning, what I have in mind is some training. You must get to know the court and how things work if you are to be of any use to me. Your tutor will be Gaius. You will meet him soon. He will teach you everything and while your lessons continue, you can think about what kind of role you would like to occupy under me.”

…

The guards took Thranduil to a large bath chamber where he was unchained and stripped naked. Several servants directed him to one of the shallow pools of hot water where they attended to him at the same time. One cleaned his hair, while another two scrubbed his skin clean, and another two took care of his nails and feel. Their ministrations were gentle, however the Elven King was put on edge unused to being bathed by servants. He kept his exterior calm despite his unrest and endured the whole process, knowing that any attempts to resist or escape would be futile with all the guards waiting by the entrance of the bathhouse.

Once he was washed and his hair dried and combed, Thranduil was made to stand naked in the middle of the room, surrounded by guards, until a middle aged valet, wearing a burgundy scarf with the Newdalion crest, appeared. He looked Thranduil over from head to toe. He took notice of the healing wounds on his shoulder and palm, as well as the fresh bruises of the beating he had taken in the morning. The man’s scrutiny was medical yet thorough as he mapped every inch of the elf’s skin. Slowly the valet examined the injuries, poking lightly around the shoulder wound to judge its state before deeming his recovery sufficient and waving his hand with a gesture, which sent the servants scurrying to redress him in soft velvety doe-grey robes and indoor shoes of matching colour.

The valet waited with his hands behind his back until Thranduil was fully dressed and then he stepped up to chain the Elven King’s wrists. The new bonds were gold-plated cuffs and a chain of the same finish extended to a cuff around his neck. Thranduil’s ankles were similarly bond with a chain between them that allowed him to make only small steps. There was to be no running or escaping within such confines.

The man observed him critically one more time before gesturing at the band, which held his newly washed hair tied behind his head.

“Let his hair loose.” he said in an authoritative voice and one of the younger servants ran to loosen and comb Thranduil’s hair once more.

“Better.” the man in charge said. “Follow me.” he instructed before turning on his heel and leading the way out of the bath chamber.

The guards shoved Thranduil after the valet, who walked with a back so straight it seemed almost unnatural.

Once again Thranduil was lead through the palace. This time he was taken to the Steward’s quarters. The man gestured for him to sit on silk cushions of the lounge area before attaching a long chain to his neck cuff and releasing his legs, but not his arms.

“Wait here.” he said and left Thranduil alone to wait for the Steward’s appearance.

...

In his study, Newdalion asked Bard many questions about the elf, the catacombs and the people who live there, to which the young man gave predetermined answers, just as he had discussed the evening before with Masego and the others. Finally satisfied, Newdalion talked about the arrangements of Bard’s stay and after several more shows of respect and polite goodbyes, Bard exited the Steward’s office and was guided by a servant to a chamber in the eastern wing of the Palace.

‘I thought you would like a view of your hometown.’ Newdalion had said when he had mentioned Bard’s accommodation in the Palace. To the teen’s surprise, the Steward wanted him to stay during his training with Gaius and was getting his own room in one of the upper levels.

Upon arrival to his new room, the servant unlocked the wooden door and allowed Bard into a square room which, true to Newdalion’s word, had a window with a view of the North-eastern Dale Valley.

She then politely excused herself after telling Bard how to call her if he needed anything and left the chamber. The young man was left to look around the room disbelievingly. It was bigger than their old living room back in Esgarothie and it was all to himself. It had a broad single bed, a desk, a dresser and small table with comfortable looking chairs flanking it.

Newdalion had said that he would replace the few belongings, which Bard had left in the Master’s camp, since they had agreed that the young man shouldn’t return there. Newdalion wanted to keep his involvement with Bard on a low profile, which worked best for both of them.

Pushing a side door open, Bard discovered a small washroom adjunct to his chamber. It was a luxury, which he had never thought he would have. The chamber had its own running hot water, as well as a polished mirror where Bard could see his face.

It surprised him how much he had changed. He looked older and more mature than he remembered since the last time he had seen himself in a large enough mirror to reveal his entire face. On another note, he needed a shave - his beard was growing faster and thicker by the day. It seemed that soon he would have to either shave every day or figure out a style to suit his face.

Such idle thoughts ran through the youth’s head as he washed his body and hair and tidied his appearance. When he finally looked at himself in the mirror again he looked more than just refreshed. With his dark hair wet and slicked  back away from his face, he looked rather handsome. Or perhaps he was just being vain... 

The teenager went back into the main room with a towel around his hips and upon seeing the tunic, which bore Newdalion’s crest laid out on the mattress for him, his mind turned to more serious things.

He had to pretend to be the Steward’s dog for the time being, get on with the mysterious training and find a way to save Thranduil and the others. One small misstep and he would pay with his life. With dread Bard also wondered what was happening to the Elven King. He prayed that he would not be tortured or abused more than they could have guessed. Bard could not forgive himself if he came too late to saving him.

A knock on the door got the teen’s attention.

“Enter.” Bard called, already redressed in the new tunic.

“My lord,” the hall boy not much younger than Bard himself appeared. “I am here to take you to meet Gaius.”

“Umm…” Bard hesitated. “I’m not a lord, you really don’t have to call me that. But could you tell me a bit about this Gaius, whom I’m supposed to meet?”

The young servant hesitated but after looking into the older teenager’s eyes decided to answer.

“I have been instructed to call you lord, my lord. I might get punished if I get caught calling you anything else.”

“That’s alright, I understand.” Bard frowned but nodded nonetheless.   
  


“And Gaius is the senior of staff, my lord. He is also Graham Newdalion’s personal butler. I believe he was responsible for his worship’s own education and training when he was younger. His worship values him above all other in this palace and it must be a great honor indeed.”

Bard swallowed thickly at the new information and nodded.

“Lead the way.”

…

The young man was taken to the Palace’s inner court filled with colourful gardens and sunny squares furnished with statues and benches. A middle-aged man, dressed like a servant of some esteem and bearing the Newdalion crest on a deep red scarf, stood in the middle of a clearing, with his back perfectly poised and his expression stern.

“Lord Bard, meet your tutor, Gaius.” the hall boy announced before bowing and quickly leaving the two alone in the afternoon sun.

“Nice to meet you.” Bard bowed his head slightly.

“Let us begin, shall we?” the man answered without bothering with salutations.

“Begin with what?” Bard asked, before a wooden staff was thrown in his direction, that would’ve him on the head if the teen had not caught it at the last moment.

With a sudden move, the butler attacked him with another wooden stick, which Bard managed to only narrowly dodge before sticking his staff forward to deflect the next blow.

“Hey! Wait, I’m not ready!” the young man protested.

“Your opponent would not wait for you to get ready. Now fight!” Gaius replied without slowing his attacks.

Bard tried to counter a few blows, but the butler was coming at him too fast, so he resorted to dodging and running around the gardens, trying to avoid being hit.

With a surprise movement, Gaius cut his retreat short and tripped him with the staff. Bard flew straight to the ground, getting his hands and knees scraped as he slid forward against the stone.

“Aw!” he moaned, but did not get a moment of rest as the man hit his back mercilessly while he was still on the ground.

“Hey! Stop it!” Bard shouted and rolled out of the way.

“Where is your staff?” Gaius asked without stopping his attacks.

Bard scurried on his bleeding palms and knees to grab the wooden stick, which had rolled out of his hands when he had fallen, only to be countered one more time by the older man, who hit him across the fingers before kicking the staff away.

Bard tried to roll out of reach, but was stopped short by the end of the staff pressing against his throat and pinning him to the ground. Bard was frozen on the ground, panting heavily and groaned because of the pain, which seared all over his body and pulsated from his now swelling fingers. The older man stood over him and stared with a merciless expression.

“You are hopeless.” the butler sighed in exasperation before he turned around and walked away.

Bard got up to his knees and shook his aching hands.

“Well, you could have warned me - I didn’t even know that we would be sparring. In fact I don’t know what exactly you are supposed to teach me!” Bard said angrily.

“I have to teach you everything - Graham wants you to become useful, and as you are now, you are anything but.”

“I’m good with the bow and arrow.” Bard said defensively.

“So I’ve heard,” Gaius cocked his eyebrow in a way that showed that he was not impressed. “But you are good for nothing in a close-ranged fight. You need to learn the sword, dagger and hand-to-hand combat if you want to stay here.”

“And we are just going to start here? Now?” Bard asked disbelievingly.

  
“Exactly,” Gaius smirked. “Now, where is your staff?”

…

As the day passed, Thranduil waited in silence and was only disturbed once by a charwoman who brought him a meal. It consisted of roast meat, sweetcakes, fruits and even a glass of wine. He ate the food, however he did not trust the wine enough to drink it, regardless of how badly he felt he needed it. After all, if they were trying to drug him the wine would be the easiest place to hide a poison.

It was dark outside when Newdalion finally made an appearance. He walked into his chambers and passed Thranduil with barely more than a glance in his direction. The man went through his routine of washing, changing and dining in other parts of his quarters, but after a while Thanduil saw him again, this time approaching.

The Steward had changed into a simple, if expensive, dark tunic. His ash blonde hair was left unbound, falling to just below his shoulders and he had stripped most of his jewellery, with the exception of a large signet ring on his right hand.

“Bard told me that you speak our language.” Graham said.

Of course, they had agreed that Bard would provide some information regarding Thranduil in order to seem useful and gain Newdalion’s trust. Some of that information was true, but other parts, not so much.

“Answering me when I speak to you will work in your favour. Just a hint.” the Steward smirked condescendingly.

“What do you want?” Thranduil countered, not in the mood for games.

“Am I correct that your name is Trewathil?” Newdalion carefully enunciated the elven name. “It’s a bit of a mouthful. I’m going to call you Elf. Does that sound alright to you, Elf?”

Thranduil did not bother to hide the scorn in his eyes, but remained otherwise in control of his temper. He did not want to give this man the satisfaction of a reaction.

The Steward sat on a cushion across him and inspected his face.

"Aw," Newdalion began with a tone of false concern. “Look at what these brutes did to you.” he said as he extended a hand to brush the Elven King's bruised cheek.

Thranduil shoved him away with such force that Newdalion slid backwards over the marble floor on his ass.

"Don't you dare touch me!" The Elven King commanded as the shorter man scrambled to his feet.

"What a temper," Graham mocked, recovering quickly from the shock. "I like that. Really. And such an authoritative voice... You could have intimidated me, if you were not tied to a leash. As it stands, you are nothing more than an animal that belongs to me. You would do better if you do not bite the hand that feeds."

“There is a way to tame every beast,” Newdalion continued taking a few steps back. “I suspect you will be as pliant as a puppy by the time She finishes with you."

Thranduil remained silent, refusing to be intimidated.

“Now you're going to come with me.”

…

The Steward lead the Elven King out of his quarters and through the palace until they reached a closed door where the man turned to his escort.

“That would be all.” he said to the guards, dismissing them.

When the men had turned a corner, leaving Newdalion and Thranduil alone in the hallway, the man revealed a long dagger, hidden well by his robes and showed it to the Elven King in warning.

“Just in case you get any ideas.” he warned, then he unlocked the door and shoved Thranduil to the staircase. “You go first.”

Thranduil began ascending the steps followed by the Steward, who kept a watchful eye on his every movement. They passed through several locked doors and the further up they went into what could only be the palace’s tower, the more the Elven King began to feel a strange and unpleasant magic. It seeped into the very stones around them and made the air heavy and numbing. There were wards guarding the place, but unlike the elusive, transcendent quality of elven magic, these felt dark and unfamiliar. They were meant to injure and damage any unwanted visitors, instead of just confuse and drive away. However the magic was letting them pass through and soon they found themselves high in the tower, entering a chamber which was largely empty with the exception of the multiple candle holders, which lit up the place, and a large oval piece covered by a dark sheet in the very middle of the room.

As soon as the door closed, Thranduil felt the ominous influence of the place increase tenfold. There was no doubt that whatever was hidden under the sheet was the object, which the wards had been set up to guard.

The Steward used the long chain stemming from Thranduil’s neck to bond him to a metal ring on the ground near the centre of the room. Once he was finished, Graham seemed to wait for something to happen, but when nothing did, he turned and walked out of the door and with one last glance to the Elven King he closed it shut behind him.

Thranduil could sense something was deeply wrong with the place. Whatever was hidden under the veil was an object of great evil.

The door at the other end finally opened and through it came a woman in a black dress. She was beautiful and her hair was a deep, lustrous red, which fell down her frame temptingly, however there was something ugly and tainted about the air she exuded, which made Thranduil dislike and distrust her immediately. There was no doubt that this was the woman, with whom Newdalion has threatened him earlier.

“Alatulya,” she greeted him in Elvish.

“What do you want from me?” he asked in the common tongue.

“For now, I want to speak your language, so that our conversation would not be overheard.” she said with a smile. “My name is Nessamelda. I work with Newdalion on one of his pet projects.” she gestured to the hidden object in the centre of the room. “What is your name? Where do you come from?”

“You know my name already,” Thranduil guessed, obliging her and switching back to elven speech. “But you won’t get anything else from me.”

“I do know your name. I also know that you were captured near Eryn Rhun, so I assume that this is where you come from. There are legends that Avari elves have inhabited those woods for thousands of years, and the Silvan and Sindar exiles found refuge there after Middle Earth sank to the bottom of the Rhun sea. Now I know that the stories are true,” Nessamelda said. “But which are you? You are not Silvan, you seem too cultured, too polished for that. You are definitely not Avari. You must be Sindar. How lucky.”

“Lucky?” he asked warily.

“Your kind is the most knowledgeable of the three, and knowledge is exactly what I seek.”

“What kind of knowledge?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Before we get to that, I would like to show you something.”

As she said that, she walked over to the veiled piedestal and in one quick movement slipped away the sheet.

The sight underneath took Thranduil’s breath away and made his heart stutter.

“Do you like it?” she asked with cruel laughter in her eyes.

  
“You are mad.” the Elven King gasped, his hands balling into fists by his body in an attempt to retain his self control. The sight that greeted him was one he had hoped to never see in his lifetime. For on the pedestal before him rested a living dragon’s egg, as large as a barrel, warm like the stones of a fireplace, black and scaly like the monstrosity, which slept inside.

“I agree,” Nessamellda laughed somewhat hysterically. “Newdalion thinks he can tame a dragon and transform it into the ultimate weapon of war. Perhaps it’s possible, while the dragon is young. What’s more likely is that this creature would bring ruin to this city and the rest of the civilized world. However that concerns me little. I have bigger plans in mind. And if you help me achieve them, I promise I would be just as generous to you in return.”

“I am listening.”

“Your kind holds the greatest of treasures,” she began circling him in a slow gait. “And don’t worry, I am not about to ask gold or gems or any other trivialities like that. I do not want to rob you. What I want, I suspect, can only be given by free will anyway.”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow and followed her with his eyes while remaining still like a statue.

“But I suspect that it is a fair price to giveaway, considering that I can save your life and rid the World from one of its biggest hazards before it is even unleashed. I would gladly eliminate Newdalion and end his mad quest for power.”

“So you promise to help me escape and return to my people, as well as destroy the dragon’s egg and kill Newdalion? What do you want in return for those favors?”

“The gift of immortal life.” she said and Thranduil couldn’t help but roll his eyes in a moment of total exasperation.

“You have gotten the whole concept mixed up,” he said. “Eru Illuvatar’s gift is mortality and he gave that to humans. Not even the Valar can change his plan…”

“Your religion concerns me little. I don’t believe in your gods, nor in any other god for that matter. Mortality isn’t a gift, it’s a malady. From what the servants reported about you, besides the pointy ears there is nothing underneath your clothes to set you so far apart from my species. Your kind must have a cure for mortality, and I intend to find out what that is and use it.”

“There is no such thing. We are born immortal. Refusing to accept that is your affliction.”

“You expect me to believe this?” the woman cooked an eyebrow.

Thranduil did not deem it with an answer.

“Perhaps,” she said while taking bold steps towards him until her nose was almost touching his chin, “Perhaps the remedy is inside you. What if your blood could cure diseases and prevent aging and death?”

“It doesn’t.” he stated, toying with the idea of attacking her despite his confines. He only held back, because he did not believe it would gain him anything, given he was still chained to the floor and would be at the mercy of Newdalion later. She must have known that as well.

“Have you tried?” she teased with a tilt of her head and the Elven King realised he was being threatened.

“I don’t think your employer would be happy with you, if you tried anything to hurt me.” Thranduil answered coolly.

“If you are talking about Graham, please don’t concern yourself,” Nessamelda laughed. “He would do anything for me. I could have him drain your blood in a tub for me to bathe, if I wanted to.”

“You will get nothing of killing me,” he said, holding her gaze gravely

“I won’t lose anything either. Now that I know for certain where the elves are, I could always make Graham send people to Eryn Rhun to gather some more cooperative prisoners.” she said dismissing him and she walked around the room to the door from which she appeared. 

“Only a fool would try to hunt my people in their own forest.” Thranduil hissed.

“True, but what one fool cannot achieve, an army would surely manage.”

With a final malicious smile, she exited the door and left the Elven King alone in the candle-lit chamber.


	8. Courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the slow update! I have 2 chapters for you today - posting this one now and the other one as soon as I look it over one last time. I hope that would make up for the wait. I hope you enjoy this chapter - it was one of the hardest ones to write, because it took me ages to figure out how to approach it. 
> 
> On to the chapter, now beta-ed by Sky_Sky, whose writing you can find here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sky_Sky/

_Art by Plotbunniesincolour_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His quick breaths were burning in his lungs, his heart pounding a staccato rhythm in his ears.

Breathe in, breathe out. In and out, in…

That was his mantra, the only thought he was supposed to allow into his mind. His eyes were on the dirt path before him, the grass and pebbles blurring in his tired vision.

"Focus!" Gaius’ voice cracked like a whip though Bard’s consciousness, forcing the young one to the present. It felt like he had been running for hours, the forested landscape of the outskirts of Oakwood seemed to continue without change for what felt like miles.

The gravel crunched under the young man's shoes.

Breathe in... He forced his lungs to take another breath.

Breathe out… He wiped the sweat pouring down his face with a wrist.

Bard’s eyes searched for the turn of the path, which disappeared behind thick branches of oaks and shrubs. The finish of the length was somewhere behind that last turn.

Breathe in.

If only he could see the finish line, perhaps it would give him strength to complete this run. If he stopped, Gaius was going to make him do another two…

But perhaps it would do him good to run past the point of exhaustion and let himself be completely drained. That way the night would be easier on him. His body would fall into a death sleep and he might just get some rest, instead of lying awake and thinking…

With a startled cry Bard flew face-first to the ground, rolling forward over the warm earth and small rocks of the forest path.

Bard heard Gaius’ wooden bicycle came to a stop a few steps away. He rose up to his knees in an attempt to catch his breath, wiping dirt from his face. Blood was now pouring out of his right palm, his elbows and his knees.

"Your head is as empty as a poor man’s house," his trainer scolded. “Where is your focus?”

Panting, Bard lifted his head to look at his merciless tutor. His focus was elsewhere, but he couldn’t tell Gaius that his mind was constantly drifting to a prisoner of whom he had not heard for nearly two months. Instead he followed the man’s finger with his gaze and took in the raised root on the path - the one responsible for tripping him.

"I... I didn't see that.”

"If your mind and body aren’t in the same place, you will always trip, no matter what you do," Gaius huffed, getting back on his bicycle. “What are you waiting for?”

With that he rode away, not sparing Bard even a moment to regain his footing.

“Hurry up!” Gaius called as he gained distance on the youth.

Cursing under his breath and gritting his teeth, Bard forced himself to jog along.

“How do I… bring my… mind back… When I’m distracted?” Bard asked between hurried breaths.

“Start with keeping your mind where it belongs - on the running! And stop asking me questions!” Gaius roared and sped up his bicycle.

The young man tried to follow the advice, much like tried to learn whatever he could from his sadistic teacher. However it was hard to distance himself from what worried him.

After all, being in the tender care of Gaius was nothing compared to the guilt, which gnawed on his consciousness day and night. At least while training his mind was blissfully empty of the thoughts that troubled it.

It had been two months since he had last seen Thranduil. Newdalion had occupied Bard’s time with a challenging curriculum of training and lessons, given him access to resources and forced him to attend meetings. Bard had been introduced to many of the key members of the Steward’s court and the most important nobles of New Dale. The Steward had even taken it upon himself to oversee Bard’s progress and personally tutor him at least once a week, while Gaius trained the young man in weapons and martial arts.

However, throughout the entire time, Bard hadn’t heard a single word of the Elven King. No one knew what had become of the Steward’s expensive acquisition; only dark rumours circulated the palace regarding the elf’s fate.

Still Bard did not lose hope and was determined to find a way to rescue Thranduil, if he yet lived. If not... Bard did not know how he would continue to face himself.

...

That hot afternoon Bard was glad for the private shower in his quarters. The sting of his scrape wounds being washed was nothing he had not grown accustomed to, and the cool water was a balm to his overheated body and tired skin. But even as the grime and dust washed away, his heart found little solace. He felt dirtied from partaking, however unwillingly, in Newdalion’s plans, even if it was all a charade.

As was his routine, after bathing, Bard headed through the wide corridors and down the tall staircases, which lead out of the Palace and into the inner courtyard. There the gardens lay ever so sweet and welcoming under the deep blue sky of the late summer afternoon. Everything about the Palace was outwardly beautiful, but in Bard’s mind even the greenery felt tainted from the Newdalions’ corruption.

Finally, the young man reached an older-looking hall, one which housed most of the staff and servants, as well as the stores and the Palace’s kitchen. From the very first days in the Palace, Bard had found that eating with Newdalion’s other guests or by himself in his quarters was not to his taste. So he had quickly located where the servants ate and had soon become a part of the scenery in their halls.

The communal dining area had a long wooden table with benches on either side. When the staff were not having meals, the table served as a place to hang out. At that odd hour, there were only a few people besides him in the room - several gardeners were gathered to play dice at the other end of the table, a few maids were busy cleaning and sorting out supplies, and a cook was preparing sauces in the nearby kitchen.

Bard gathered a plateful of oatcakes, sweetbreads and shortbread before asking the chef to prepare some bacon and eggs for him, a request which she was happy to oblige.

Once he had his meal sorted, Bard sat down at the end of the table and began wolfing down his food. He ate with such zeal that he didn’t notice the presence of another boy until said youth threw himself on the bench right next to him, nearly causing Bard’s plate to tip over.

“Watch it!” Bard growled through a mouthful, steading his dish.

"Oh sorry, sir." not surprisingly it was Sammie, the same hallboy, who had shown Bard around the first day at the Palace.

On one occasion Bard had saved Sammie from a beating, when the hallboy had dropped Lord Sebastian’s hat on the floor before one of the Council’s meetings. Since then Sammie had become very loyal to Bard, and the two had spent some time together, mostly the young servant showing Bard around and answering his questions until a genuine friendship and understanding developed between them.

Despite that, Sammie refused to drop the honorific, making Bard roll his eyes in exasperation the numerous times he heard it.

Regardless of the way he spoke, the boy made a quick move and stole a biscuit from Bard’s plate, shoved it into his mouth and grinned when Bard let out an indignant yelp and hugged his dish closer.

"Get your own!” Bard protested.

"They won't give me shortbread." Sammie argued.

"I need it more than you do - I've been running, jumping and getting beaten all morning."

"Well, in that case, I guess you are too beat to want to hear news of your special friend..." the younger boy said with fake nonchalance.

"Have you heard news of him?!" Bard whipped around to face the boy, all thoughts of food obliterated from his brain.

"I might do, if you have some shortbread to spare..." Sammie grinned and dug right into Bard’s plate as soon as the older teenager pushed it in his direction.

"So," Sammie spoke over mouthfuls of cakes and meat. Judging by the way he ate, Bard could guess that kids in the court often went hungry. "I might know... where he is… now."

"Where?" Bard asked desperately. Sammie knew about Thranduil and many other things he probably shouldn’t. It wasn’t Bard’s fault that the other teenager was way too good at digging out information with his curious manner and that he needed someone to talk to, especially while he dealt with living behind enemy lines.

"It seems that his Lordship has tired of his plaything." Sammie said, not bothering to hide the scorn he felt for Newdalion from his voice.

"What do you mean?! What have they done to him?”

"He's in the dungeon. I don’t know what they’ve been doing to him. I only heard from Cassius that he now has to bring meals to the elf.” The hallboy whispered the last words.

"Do you think Cassius can get me in there?" Bard asked but Sammie was already shaking his head.

"Cassius is an idiot, but even he wouldn't risk his head for something like that. I will ask around a bit more, but I think His Lordship is already displeased with your friend. It’s very rare for anyone to end up in the Palace’s dungeon. His Lordship is just not the type to let prisoners to rot - he always deals with them one way or another. It seems that whatever he wants with your friend, he hasn't been able to get it."

"I need to go there as soon as possible," Bard said. "You have to arrange something."

The two exchanged looks. The plate between them was all but empty.

"There is no stopping you, is there?" Sammie sighed.

“If you won’t help me, I will do it myself, yes.” Bard said.

“Please don’t! You are by far the best Lord I’ve met so far. I’d hate to see you end badly,” the hallboy groaned. “I might be able to come up with something. Just give me time.”

"Thanks." Bard smiled.

"But if something goes wrong though - you ordered me to do it."

"I wouldn’t have it any other way."

...

Two nights later, Bard was in the dungeons beneath the Palace. Sammie had spun some ridiculous tale of how Lord Bard needed to inspect the state of the cells and even bribed Cassius to confirm it after bribing the cook to make lots of shortbread. While the other guards had gaped at the rapid talk and animated face of the hallboy, who twisted the topic to guards’ wage promotions and some rumors about certain court ladies, Bard slipped into the narrow corridor leading to the cells unnoticed.

The prison was much cooler than the rest of the Palace. It seemed that only whilst underground could one get away from the scorching heat during those late summer days. The cells were all empty. New Dale had barracks and prisons, which held criminals and convicts, whereas the dungeon under the Palace were archaic, gone out of use many centuries ago. The only people to ever be imprisoned there were ones that had personally offended the Newdalions and who would get no trial or hearing.

Passing each barred door, Bard peeked inside through the doors sliding wooden bars, which revealed viewing holes. The cells behind each door were dark, windowless and desolate - bare of anything but rock. They were all empty except for the ones where the stench of decay betrayed the presence of long diseased inhabitants.

Bard reached the very last cell of the corridor without avail. As he approached the final door, his heart clenched from fear of what he might see inside.

He braced himself and slid the tiny wooden bar aside - revealing a hole just large enough for his eyes to peer through.

When he didn't immediately see anything within the darkness, Bard held his breath and hissed:

"Thranduil? Are you here?"

A slow rustling of clothing and the clanking of chains gave away movement. A tall figure approached the door and before Bard could gather his bearings, Thranduil’s icy blue eyes were looking at him through the viewer.

Bard felt his heart leap at the sight of the Elven King, who was but a few inches away.

"It’s King Thranduil, Bard." the elf teased, making Bard grin widely.

"I'm so glad to see you!" Bard whispered excitedly before relief turned into concern. "Are you ok? What happened?"

"It's a long tale."

"I am sorry I didn’t make it any sooner," Bard whispered. "Newdalion kept all information about you a secret - no one knew anything. To be honest, I began to dread you were gone from this world."

"Bard, listen,” Thranduil answered with urgency of his own. “There is something important that you need to know.”

"What?" Bard asked uncomprehendingly.

"Your Steward has a dragon’s egg hidden in the Palace's tower," the Elven King said.

"A what?" Bard stuttered.

"He means to hatch a dragon and use it to wage war, however all he would succeed in doing would be to bring ruin to the world,” Thranduil continued. “You must stop him.”

“How could I possibly do that?” Bard asked, his voice trembling. “He has more power and influence than I had ever imagined! He has people everywhere! I can’t just…”

“Expose his secret,” Thranduil cut him off. “Such madness is enough to convince people to turn against him.”

Bard nodded, processing the information.

“Here,” Thranduil stepped away from the hole, momentarily dispersing into the darkness beyond. The sound of scraping stones filled in the solitary tunnel, while Bard waited tensely.

The elven king’s steps were soundless and his hand appearing at the hole startled the young man. His long pearly white fingers poked out from the darkness, holding something between them. When Bard took it and examined it, it looked like a polished plate of onyx. It was thin with sharp edges, much like a seashell, however it had a tainted energy to it, a sour taste, which the young man could almost feel the beginnings of in his mouth.

“What is this?” he asked.

“It’s a scale from the egg,” Thranduil said, making Bard’s eyes widen. “You would need proof.”

“It feels evil, but would that be enough for people to believe me?”

“Put it in a fire, it won’t damage, instead it will glow brightly, red like Morgoth’s flames from which it spawned.” the Elven King said ominously.

Bard turned the piece into his hands.

“Ok,” he said. A part of him still refused to believe that the scale had come from a dragon’s egg. It just seemed too much.

“And Bard,” Thranduil said, his eyes once again looking at Bard through the hole in the door.

“Yes?”

“Don’t risk coming back here. If someone suspects you are conspiring with me, much will be lost.”

“But-”

“Don’t come back!” Thranduil commanded. “Not until you are ready.”

Bard hesitated once more, but nodded and turned to hurry out of the dungeons. He hated leaving the Elven King there, however Thranduil had a point - there was little use in paying him visits and risking getting found out before he had come up with a solid plan to save him.

However the new information, which Thranduil had provided, gave Bard ideas. Perhaps it was a futile cause, but he had one person in mind, who might actually listen to what he had to say, if only he knew how to find her.

...

“Heck, I’ve got no idea where she could be, but I know someone who might.” Masego scratched his snowy curls as he thought.

Bard had sought out the Refugee Leader during a walk to New Dale’s markets. The old man did not always linger in the catacombs - during the day he could be found posing as a blind beggar. However, begging was not his true occupation - if someone wanted to know the ins and outs of the lower streets, Masego was the go-to man.  

And if anyone was to know how to find Lady Goditha, who had escaped from New Dale shortly after being declared a fugitive by Newdalion’s court, it was Masego.

“A few of the orphans patroned by the good Lady are now in the catacombs.” Masego said. “You would have to come to the catacombs by night and talk to them.”

“I can’t.” Bard shook his head. “My movements are tracked as it is. By night if I leave the Upper City Newdalion will know.”

“There are other ways out of the Upper City, besides the Gates, you know?”

“Even so, I can’t risk him finding out that I had gone missing. There must be another way.”

“I will think of something. Send that friend of yours, the hallboy, by the end of the week. He could deliver my news to you.”

“I don’t know if I can trust Sammie that much. He is a good kid, but there is no knowing where his true loyalties lie.” Bard said.

“Your kindness inspires loyalty, Bard,” Masego said, placing a hand on Bard’s shoulder. “I think that boy would do anything for you. But you must remain careful. It’s not Sammie that you should be worried about. From what I hear, you have been making too much noise around the Palace. Lots of folks are talking about you. And you should have been more careful about going to the dungeons.”

“I know,” Bard agreed.

“Don’t tell me you know, use that pretty head of yours and think next time!”

…

A week later Masego and Sammie had organised one of the orphans, who had been close to Lady Goditha, to go into the Palace. The girl went dressed as a grocer to deliver food to the kitchens.

Once the girl had unloaded the stock, she headed to the backroom where Bard met her.

“Masego trusts you,” she said. “But know this, if any harm comes to the Lady because of you, I will personally have your head!”

“I promise, I am on your side, and I want to help your Patron,” Bard said looking at her sincerely.

“In that case, watch and listen carefully…”

The teenage girl took a handful of flower and crouched on the floor, using the powder to dust a thin coating over the stone. With her finger she drew a map of Oakwood, the forest road and the rivers, which passed through it, and then she sketched a secret road - which lead to Lady Goditha’s estate.

“She said to us once never to reveal it’s location,” the girl explained. “She wanted us to know that we can go there if something like this were to happen. She said there is everything we need - food, supplies, loyal men.”

“How many do you reckon she has?” Bard asked.

“A small legion, I believe. Her estate is like a fortress. It was built for this.”

“That’s good to know,” Bard said. “Thank you.”

“Please protect her!” the girl said as she ran her hand over the flower, erasing all traces of the map before she got up and left the kitchens.

Bard remained crouching by the floor, wondering what he had gotten himself into. He didn’t know if he could live up to the promises he had made. One thing was for certain, there was no going back and if he were to try to make things right, the time to act had come.

...

The Elven King hadn’t seen Bard since the youth had found him in the dungeon almost three weeks hence.  When the young man reappeared at his cell’s door, he seemed changed - there was a strain in his youthful hazel eyes and a weight over his shoulders that hadn’t been there before.

“You shouldn’t have come back here - too much depends on you!” Thranduil hissed as soon as Bard opened the viewer on the dungeon door.

“Would you shut up and listen?” Bard cut him off and the Elven King gaped in stunned silence, taken aback by the teen’s boldness.

“I am going to get you out of here, tonight,” Bard said. “We are going to escape New Dale together.”

Thranduil was at a loss of words. Uncertainty and apprehension mixed with the irresistible desire to escape the dark cell where he had nearly lost his mind.

“Explain yourself.” he asked carefully after a long pause of consideration.

“I am going to seek help from a powerful noble woman, who was driven away by Newdalion’s court. She has taken refuge in a secret fortress in the great forest to the east from here. Masego and I believe that she is the strongest ally we can get. With the dragon egg’s scale, which you have given me, she would be able to unite Newdalion’s opposition and start a rebellion against him.”

“Are you certain you have prepared for this? There will be consequences for your actions. Think of your friends in the catacombs.”

“They are already on their way to her fortress. Masego has been sending them out of the city bit by bit. By tonight there will be no one loyal to the Refugee Leader left in the catacombs.”

“And what of your family?” the Elven King asked.

“My family isn’t in danger. I have told no one about them.”

“Are you certain?” Thranduil’s tone was grave.

“Positive. I mean, sure, I’ve mentioned I have a family and where I’m from, but I’ve never discussed anything further than that.”

“If Newdalion realises what you are doing, your whole town would be in danger.” the Elven King warned.

“We won’t give him time to realize.” Bard said with conviction. “Newdalion would have no idea where I’ve went or what I’m doing. All he would know is that I have taken you. He might try to hunt us down, but I doubt he would suspect our true intentions.”

Thranduil could argue more, however he remained silent. Whether his fears were justified or not, Bard had already set his plan in motion, so there was no going back.

“Besides this door, is there anything else keeping you here?” Bard asked.

“There are chains restricting my movements,” Thranduil said, suddenly remembering the detail, which had become such a constant in his life for the past few months that he had almost forgotten what it was to not wear them. The realization made his heart sink.  “Newdalion’s witch is the only one with a key.”

“He has a witch?”

“I am afraid you won’t be able to find the keys to my restrains,” Thranduil said with a heavy heart. “I would only be a liability to your escape.”

“I am not going to leave you behind. Not again.” Bard said with finality.

Hope and despair mixed treacherously in Thranduil’s heart. He knew Bard meant his words and he wished more than anything that Bard would keep his oath. However, Thranduil couldn’t let the young man endanger his life senselessly. It was too selfish.

“Perhaps it is not your fate to rescue me.” Thranduil said, softer than he had intended to.

“I gave you my word. This time I will not leave without you. If we can’t make it together, neither one of us will.” Bard declared.

Thranduil held back a sigh as he leaned against the door and let his forehead rest on the side of the viewing hole. He didn’t want Bard to see him. The torch light coming from the corridor filtered through into the darkness of the cell like the last beam of hope. He had been trapped in that sunless place for too long, away from all living things. It was the perfect torture, one concocted by Nessamelda, who had knowledge of his people and was surely going to make good on her word of hunting others down if he faded. He could not allow that, as he could not allow her to hatch the dragon’s egg.

“I must go.” Bard said when the silence stretched for too long.

“Bard,” Thranduil moved into the light once again and stopped the young man with his gaze. “I might never get another chance to say this. I was wrong about you. Whatever happens tonight, I would be honored to share in the fate of one through whom the fabled courage and nobility of the race of Men live on.”

Bard gaped at him with a stricken expression which turned into a dark blush.

“I’m not sure that I deserve that, but whatever happens, know that I am glad I met you,” Bard said, cautiously looking up into the elven eyes.

Thranduil nodded, perplexed by Bard’s statement but accepting it none the less.

Bard hurriedly broke his look and left the dungeons, forgetting to close the door viewer. Thranduil gazed longingly at the light flowing into the cell for a long moment, before he slid the wooden bar closed. 


	9. The Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to Sky_sky for beta-ing this chapter - find her works here: http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sky_Sky/pseuds/Sky_Sky
> 
> Here is a map of the geography, if you need to visualise where they are going (updated): http://orig10.deviantart.net/2536/f/2015/303/c/b/map2_by_alikuu-d9exny6.jpg
> 
> On to the chapter, yey!!!
> 
> (oh towards the end of the chapter, you might want to look at this map as well, not sure if it's not slightly spoilery, because I made it for the next chapter and it shows the route that Bard and Thranduil will take... Up to u to look at it: http://img06.deviantart.net/9910/i/2015/303/5/2/forest_map_by_alikuu-d9exx76.jpg)

In the dungeons there was no way to tell the passage of time. But somehow Thranduil felt that it wasn't far into the night when Bard returned. He wasn't alone.

The door was opened and Thranduil had to squint as Bard came into the torch light. It had been over a month since he was put in that cell and his eyes were not prepared for the brightness, which assaulted his vision.

"King Thranduil." Bard addressed him formally.

The other visitor was a younger teenager, who stood a head shorter than Bard.

"Your majesty." the other boy bowed low.

"This is Sammie, a hallboy," Bard introduced. "He has agreed to help us."

Thranduil narrowed his eyes at the child, his suspicions kindling.

"At your service," Sammie said, bowing once again.

“So what is your plan?” Thranduil raised a sceptical eyebrow, not at all swayed by the hallboy’s excessively servantile manner.

Bard exchanged a look with Sammie and the boy stepped forward unwrapping a bundle of cloth he had been holding. When the fabric came loose, Thranduil saw it was a long, flowing and elaborately embroidered cloak.

The Elven King shot Bard a questioning look.

"You're gonna have to wear this, my Lord," Sammie said already walking towards him. "Let me help you put it on!"

"What exactly is your plan?" Thranduil bristled, his body taking an aggressive stance, which sent the young human stumbling back.

"Umh, ugh..." Sammie stuttered and looked at Bard helplessly.

"You must wear a disguise. It's the only way we can sneak you out alive,” Bard said. “We can't run when we can't take off your chains. We needed a more clandestine tactic."

Thranduil glared at the young man for a long moment, trying to understand if he was hearing some kind of a joke, but when it became apparent that Bard was completely serious, the Elven King remembered that the youth’s methods so far had been odd, but effective. He decided to trust Bard and nodded to the hallboy to proceed.

Sammie did a quick job of putting the long, heavy cloak around the Elven King’s shoulders and pulling his pale golden hair out of the collar, making it fall over his shoulders and back. He had even brought a comb, which he used to smooth the elf’s locks to perfection. Thranduil chose not to comment, instead taking a moment to appreciate the fine quality of the garments. Surely he was going to pose as a noble. Perhaps the plan wasn’t so bad, since not many in the palace had actually seen him. With the elaborate headwear, which the boy arranged onto his head, typical of the New Dale’s upper classes, the chances of anyone recognising him were even slimmer. The hat not only hid his pointy ears but also most of his face with its low-hanging veil, which covered his eyes and nose, leaving only his jaw and lips exposed.

And then the boy handed him a jar of red paint and a brush.

“You have to put that on,” Sammie said.

Bemused Thranduil turned the objects in his chained hands.

“What is this?” he asked, genuinely perplexed.

“It will make your lips red, so that it’s not obvious.” Sammie said by means of explanation, even though the whole statement made little to no sense in Thranduil’s mind.

“And explicitly, what do you mean by obvious?” he asked warily.

“That you are a man.”

Thranduil looked from the hallboy to Bard to the embroidered robe, which he had put on.

“What exactly is this disguise?” he asked, his anger rising.

“Well, we thought, well… a courtesan?” Sammie cringed, eyes darting to Bard.

Thranduil’s shock must have shown on his face, but he reigned his emotions quickly and sent Bard the coldest glare he could manage.

“Was this your scheme?” Thranduil accused, his inside freezing over with betrayal.

“No! No, it wasn’t!” Bard raised his hands defensively, his expression deeply sincere. “It was Sammie’s idea actually, but it was a really good idea - let me explain!”

“I am all ears.” Thranduil hissed, glowering at the trembling hallboy.

“You can’t run away from New Dale,” Bard began. “That much is obvious. You need to walk out of it. And the only time that could happen is at night, but... but after a certain hour not many people come and go from the upper levels of the city. Decent men surely don’t. The only ones leaving the upper levels at this hour are courtesans going back to their brothels.”

“That was the only way that you wouldn’t attract attention,” Sammie cut in. “No one looks twice at the courtesans -”

Thranduil rolled his eyes and suppressed the urge to sigh. At least he was more or less convinced that no ill intent had went into the decision of his disguise. After more than two months of being tossed around the Palace and receiving more gluttonous stares than he could handle in a lifetime, perhaps he was becoming a little jumpy.

“I need help putting this on.” he said with resignation.

“I’m not an expert, but I’ve seen my sister do it countless times,” Sammie jumped at the opportunity. “Just sit down - can’t reach…”

...

The escape was clearly not what he had envisioned. However, much like the two boys had explained, pretending to be a courtesan turned out an easy way to escape the otherwise closely guarded walls of the upper three levels of New Dale.

Escaping the dungeon was easy - the guards were asleep, heavily drunk (or drugged, if not both), a trick, which the Elven King had seen before and wouldn’t soon forget.

Once they made it out of the basement and into the Palace, Bard separated from the group, explaining that his presence would only attract unnecessary attention. It was way less suspicious to see a courtesan escorted by a rich patron’s servant. Whereas the presence of Bard, whom everyone knew as Newdalion’s new and mysterious ward, would turn eyes and questions their direction.

Therefore, the pair went down the wide marble staircase lit by bright electrical lamps without anyone stopping them. The night air was fresh and sweet with the fragrance of approaching autumn and there was a slight breeze picking up the loose strands of the Elven King’s hair. It felt so good to be outside once again, yet Thranduil couldn’t let himself enjoy it just yet. They were still too close to danger.

“Is there a way Bard can pass through the gates of the upper city on his own without looking suspicious?” Thranduil whispered to Sammie, who lead him out of the Palace with not so much as a nod from the guards that stood by the entrance.

“No way at all,” Sammie said. “His worship Newdalion is having him tracked wherever he goes outside the Palace and sometimes even inside. If you ask me it’s a good thing Lord Bard is leaving - our Steward has grown very wary of him.”

“Then how is he going to meet us in the lower city?” Thranduil asked feeling dubious all over again.

“He’ll take a different route.”

Thranduil wanted to ask more, however a group of noblemen were passing by, their eyes trying to penetrate the veil, which hid his entire face, except for his lusciously red lips. The Elven King did not utter a word and hoped that his short steps were interpreted as the difficult gate of a woman on platformed heels, rather than a giveaway of the constraints of the golden chains, which still hung between his ankles and extending from his wrists to his neck.

The humans walked on, but while the rustling of the heavy garments disguised any clinging sounds, that managed to ring despite Thranduil’s efforts to move as fluidly as possible, the Elven King was painfully aware that if anyone was to so much as ask for something as small as a handshake, his disguise would be for naught.

Thankfully the Elven King and the hallboy made it out of the luxurious upper three circles with no interruptions from neither guards nor civilians. Thranduil was just about to begin to feel more at ease when a drunken man, who reeked of alcohol and had the look of an upper-middle class clerk, took an interest in them.

“Hey gorgeous,” he greeted drunkenly as he stumbled after Thranduil on the street.

Sammie shot a quick glance at Thranduil, which the Elven King caught under the veil that hid his eyes. It was enough for an understanding to pass between them: trouble.

They kept walking as briskly as Thranduil’s shortened gate would allow, giving off an air of coldness, however the drunkard was not so easily dissuaded and he followed with ever-increasing in volume shouts.

“Hey! Don’t ignore me! I have money, I can pay!”

The street was largely empty but for a few faces, which turned towards the commotion briefly before losing interest. However the scene the man was causing, could quickly attract authorities. And if anyone took a closer look at Thranduil or asked him to speak, all would be lost.

“Hey!” the man kept shouting. “Miss Your-too-good-for-me, you whore - hey!”

Thranduil kept walking, trying very hard to ignore the jabs.

“You stupid bitch! Wait until I get you, I’m gonna smash your face in, you bloody cunt! Fucking whore!”

Something snapped in the Elven King and he stopped and turned to give a little nod to the man, gesturing towards a nearby alley. The drunk’s face went from angry to incredulous to exuberant. His expression lit up with a leer and he shuffled after the Elven King, who made his way into the smaller, empty street.

“What are you doing?” Sammie hissed, his eyes panicked.

Thranduil stopped and leaned against a wall away from the electrical lights. He stood in the shadows, tilting his head to the side and smirking in a way, which was entirely unkind, however the man was too drunk and too oblivious to see it. He didn’t think twice as he stumbled towards the disguised elf.

As soon as he was in the short reach of Thranduil’s chains, the Elven King grabbed a hold of the man’s neck with his chained wrists and swung his entire body around smashing his back against the mortar of the wall. Sammie inhaled a horrified gasp and held his breath as Thranduil whacked the man against the wall with such feral force that the boy stumbled a few steps back.

“Stop it!” the boy cried pressing himself to the opposite wall. “You’ll kill him!”

Thranduil stopped his assault and looked over his shoulder to see the hallboy looking terrified and close to tears.

“It’s nothing more than he deserves.” Thranduil growled.

“Please don’t!” the kid yelled, shaking his head.

Thranduil looked at the man in his hands. The drunkard was already unconscious. Blood was pouring out of his nose and there was some on the wall behind him. Shoving him away with disgust, the Elven King took a few steps back.

It was almost too easy to forget how fragile humans were. The child was right - a few more hits and the man would’ve been dead. He still deserved it in Thranduil’s mind, but the Elven King decided to spare him, even if it was entirely for the friend of Bard’s benefit.

“Lead the way,” he sighed, exasperated.

Sammie nodded, wiping his nose before hurrying out of the alley. The boy looked completely shaken. Thranduil had never seen a child so squeamish about violence before. Then again, the Elven King had not seen children in a very long time.

Luckily no one else caused them any trouble. The closest to danger they came after that incident was a guard of the lower city gates asking which brothel Thranduil worked for, with Sammie saving the situation by scolding the man for speaking to his master’s mistress.

Finally, the Elven King and the hallboy walked in the lower levels of the city. The neighbourhoods were poor and cramped, just as Thranduil remembered them, however they were also full of places to disappear. Two women who looked like beggars approached them and before Thranduil could bristle, Sammie explained that they were there to help.

“This is where I leave you,” the teenager said. “Say to Lord Bard that I wish him good luck!”

“I will.” Thranduil nodded, wary but more inclined to believe the lack of deception in the people around him.

“Safe journey!” Sammie called as he left to return to the Palace.

“Come with us,” one of the two tanned women, dressed in weathered rags addressed the Elven King.

He followed them behind a small shop where they had established something like a temporary lodging - cloth tents, a dim electrical lamp and many suitcases filled with their various possessions.

There they instructed Thranduil to take off the expensive overcoat and headdress of his disguise and gave him a replacement of a traveler’s cloak with a hood and worn leather boots.

The women took off the red from his lips and used grime to dirty his face and neck, trying to mask the glow of his pearly skin and make him appear more human. Thranduil wondered where Bard had found such accomplices, but could fancy a guess.

...

“Through here.”

 

They led him to a tunnel not a part of the catacombs. Instead it was one used as a passage of some sort through the lower levels of New Dale. It was lit by an occasional electrical lamp and full of rough-looking humans, who bought, sold and exchanged things in the darkness.

Thranduil eyed the dangerous, criminal-looking sorts that surrounded him. As he followed his new guides down the black market he caught himself instinctively searching for Bard amongst the many faces, which he could glimpse in the shadows. He berated himself for it, but could not deny the relief he felt once he was lead out from the other end of the tunnel and saw Bard waiting for him by another man.

Bard’s matching relief at seeing him was evident on the young man’s face. He was wearing a similar weathered leather cloak to the one, which covered Thranduil, and had also dirtied his face and hair, in order to look more in place.

The other man wore a hood, which was pulled over his face and he did not speak much. The man just nodded to Thranduil and lead them to a small, shabby-looking wagon pulled by two dingy donkeys. The cart was loaded with used goods in various stages of disrepair, trash in Thranduil’s eyes.

“Hop on,” Bard said quietly and Thranduil did so with difficulty. The way he was bound made it very difficult to climb into anything without clinging the chains under his cloak, even for an elf.

The cloaked man, who had taken the seat at the front and held the reins, turned his head to cast a curious look at the Elven King’s fumbling.

“My friend is sick.” Bard lied not too convincingly, however the man either did not care about whom he was transporting or was paid too well to question, so he turned around without looking back again.

Bard pulled Thranduil get in the wagon and sat down beside him.

“Lie down,” he whispered gently. “Pretend to sleep.”

Thranduil shot Bard a warning glare but did as he was told, lying on his back amidst the old, rattling items, which filled the wagon. In the meantime, Bard fished out a dusty rug and tucked in the Elven King, disregarding the shivers of disgust that ran through Thranduil’s body.

Bard gave a signal to their driver and the wagon began moving, slowly and shakily as its wooden wheels winded over the deep trails in y muddy road of the low city. Soon they joined the main road and the cobblestones beneath rattled the wagon even harder, making an awful amount of noise and shaking the passengers mercilessly.

“How would anyone sleep in this wagon?” Thranduil murmured.

The violent rattling of the wagon’s movement sent items falling over; an old kettle nearly hitting him on the head as he lay on his side, his head resting against a sack of salt and his slitted eyes on Bard.

“Maybe someone who is extremely drunk.” Bard speculated.

“I hardly smell accordingly,” the Elven King said and immediately regretted it when Bard’s face lit up in inspiration.

Soon enough the Elven King was not only uncomfortable and dirty, but also soaking in cheap liquor.

“Now I feel like we might actually make it out of New Dale somehow,” Bard whispered, sounding hopeful.

Hearing that heartfelt sentiment, Thranduil, on the contrary, felt his stomach clench. Evidently their chances were slimmer than he had thought.  
  
“Is there anything left in that bottle?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“Give me that!”

…

The alcohol, which the hooded man had given them smelled revolting, however the smell was nothing compared to the taste. The burn that it left down the Elven King’s throat almost made Thranduil choke, which said something, given his drinking tolerance was legendary.

Soon he felt the warmth spread inside his belly. The burn pumped through his veins and the Elven King felt the familiar sensation of alcohol induced calm easing his frayed nerves. Oh, how he had needed that.

Their wagon cued in line with other trade and transport vehicles, which needed to pass inspection before they could exit the main gate of New Dale. It was a border and luckily for the escaping duo, the trade of the main city of the north never seized, therefore it wasn’t uncommon for wagons of all sizes and shapes to pass through the gate at night. Given the inferior goods, which were loaded in the wagon, it was almost less suspicious that way.

They moved slowly for a while, stopping frequently and going again until finally they were at the gate. Several guards approached their shabby vehicle. Two spoke to their hooded driver, who removed his hood and showed his face in the electrical light of a chunky lantern, which one of them was holding. A third guard, holding a dog on a leash, circled the wagon, making quick checks on the contents.

Bard greeted the guard in false nonchalance, while the dog sniffed and whined restlessly, letting out short barks to alert its lead that it had sensed something. Thranduil could tell that the animal knew he was there, and his heart speed up as the man asked to get on the wagon to see the other items and the passengers.

The dog jumped on the wagon and immediately went to sniff at Thranduil’s feet. The guard took his time, checking the contents of several crates and cringing at the mess. In the meantime the dog made its way to Thranduil’s face, sniffing the Elven King and letting out a curious whine.

Thranduil’s eyes briefly flickered to meet the animal’s. The dog whimpered and tilted her head to the side, her tail swinging uncertainly.

“Who's that?” the guard finally turned to look at the other passenger, who reeked of alcohol and seemed unconscious. “Bucks! What’re you doin’?”

The guard pulled the leash of the dog, who now enthusiastically licked Thranduil’s face while swinging her tail wildly. When the man pulled her away by force, she whimpered and proceeded to lick Thranduil’s boots.

“Oh, it’s my friend,” Bard smiled sheepishly. “He has a lot of dogs. Probably smells like one. They love him.”

The guard gave a sceptical nod, pulling the dog tighter with a frown.

“What’s wrong with you, Bucks?” he grumbled but when the dog kept jumping around like a pup, the man huffed in annoyance and started pulling her away from the vagrant on the floor of the wagon.

“You people shouldn’t booze so much.” he spat in annoyance as he hopped off the wagon gestured to his colleagues to let the wagon go through the gate.

As the wagon shook and began moving again, Thranduil heard a deep sigh hissing between Bard’s teeth. The young man’s heart was beating so hard and from so close, the elf could hear its wild rhythm. The light behind Thranduil’s eyes slowly faded away and soon they were on the road, outside of the cursed city.

Thranduil remained in his lying position for a while, wary of the other merchants on the road and possible spies. For several hours they travelled in tension-soaked silence, the wagon slowly taking them further and further away from New Dale, down the Great Eastern road. At some point their wagon turned on a smaller dirt road and continued northeast, leaving the sounds of other vehicles and human voices to fade into the distance.

Soon there was silence perturbed only by the clanking of their wagon and the nightly chorus of field insects and nightingales singing in the serene hour before dawn. Thranduil opened his eyes and looked at the clear night sky. The stars above were very bright, the Silver-way gloriously stretching just above them.

‘Le fael, Elbereth’ he murmured softly, however, the silence of the night was so complete that the smallest sound carried and Bard turned his eyes towards him.

The young man was sitting with his back propped against the side of the wagon, his face turned towards the stars above as well. His breaths had evened out a long time ago and now in the starlight, he looked peaceful and way fairer than Thranduil had realised he was. The Elven King marvelled for a moment at the sight of him, his heart filling with wonder at the particular human he had met. He didn’t think he had ever met anyone quite like him, not even his ancestor, Girion. Giron had been a great man, a friend, and a dragon slayer, however despite his deeds of legend, Thranduil was beginning to think that Bard might just surpass him.

“I thought you’d fallen asleep,” the young man smiled at him softly.

Thranduil’s heart began beating faster and the Elven King had to look away, uncertain of the emotions that had gotten over him. Slowly, he propped himself on one elbow and then to a full sitting position, looking at the road, which slowly appeared behind the rocking wagon.

“I don’t need sleep.” he answered absently; his mind still pondering the strangeness of the fluttering feelings he had experienced in his chest.

“I find that hard to believe,” Bard responded.

“Don’t you need some rest?” Thranduil countered pushing the old rug away and moving to sit on the opposite side of the wagon.

“We’re getting off soon,” Bard said, turning his face towards the road ahead.

Thranduil followed his gaze over the shoulder of their silent driver. He could see the dark silhouettes of hills and the darkness of thickets of trees against the rising light of the dawn. They were moving East towards the vast forest named Oakwood by the humans and Eryn Aduial by his people.

While they were still many miles away from the main forest, being among nature gave Thranduil an advantage. Once they reached the first trees, they were going to be relatively safe at last.

The wagon came to a slow and clanging stop. The donkeys breathed heavily, tired of the road and their hooded guide spoke for the first time.

“That’s as far as we agreed to go.” he croaked.

“Right, thank you.” Bard said hopping off the wagon. Thranduil followed suit, a little slower, not wanting to give away the presence of the chains underneath his cloak to the stranger who had driven them.

Bard fished out two medium sachets and his enormous longbow from underneath the miscellaneous items in the wagon. Bard slung them over his shoulders and paid the hooded man.

“Farewell.” Bard said, as the silent driver stirred the wagon back on the same road they had come from without a word.

“Well,  this is it.” Bard said turning to Thranduil with a beaming smile. “We made it.”

“We did,” Thranduil conceded. “However we are not safe from danger. You must get to this safe haven, which you mentioned and make this possible ally into an actual one. Only by removing Newdalion from his position could you ever be safe after what you just did.”

“Right,” Bard said, his smile turning a little sour. “Well, I am guessing you would be coming along until at least the first place where we can remove your chains, right?”

Thranduil was surprised by the question.

“Of course,” he said. “I cannot hope to get much further with those chains still on. I was hoping you have a plan for that as well.”

“Not yet, but I’m working on it,” Bard said his smile returning a bit.

Thranduil sighed and nodded.

“First we should find a safe place to camp. You need to rest.” the Elven King said, eyeing the way the young man swayed from exhaustion. Thranduil still did not know how Bard had gotten to the lowest level of New Dale undetected, and he intended to ask about it later.

“I think we need to keep moving. We are too close to the city. Tomorrow those guards will wake up, if they haven’t already. They will check the dungeons and find you missing. After that the whole city would be on high alert and it will be a matter of time before Newdalion sends troops to look for us outside.”

“Yet you are no use if you are asleep on your feet,” Thranduil objected. “I believe that we can afford at least a few hours for you to rest until the morning. Follow me; I will find a place.”

Bard was too tired to argue, so he followed the Elven King off the dirt road through the mounds and shrubs towards the hills to the north.

Not much further, Thranduil found a secluded foothill, facing away from the draft and the rising sun, where he insisted Bard rested. The young man fell asleep almost as soon as he lay  on the soft grass. Thranduil watched over him for a bit before he got up and carefully made his way to the top of the hill where he looked over the vast valley. The fields stretched for many miles in each direction. Somewhere far to the west was Eryn Rhun, the forest where the last of the elves on Earth lived. They were mourning his loss and he knew that he was needed. He could feel their calls and prayers reach him through the breath of every living strand and leaf. His subjects were waiting for him to return.

However something big was at work and he knew that he could not leave before he had seen it though. He had to make sure that the threat of the dragon was removed before he could return to his forests. Also his heart had grown fond of Bard, there was little use denying that fact. He wanted to help his destiny unfold and he wanted to see him on the throne of New Dale. Bard would make an excellent ruler, Thranduil thought, an image of the kings of men as they ought to be.

Bard could also be the one to lay the foundations of a trust between their races. So far the young man had shown himself as a friend of the elves and if he became King, Thranduil decided, he wouldn’t mind having him for a neighbour and an ally.

And if nothing else had come out of his capture, at least Thranduil had been made to see that the elves had become too far removed from the World and were slowly being forgotten and erased from its history. He had been shocked by just how much the world had changed without his people realising. If the elves were to remain, some kind of a change was necessary. Perhaps it could come from forming an alliance with Men. The elves could keep a better grasp of the changing of the times if they participated in the comings and goings of humans. To an extent, of course. By no means did Thranduil want to see Men mingle in his kingdom. Nothing good ever came of that. Thranduil could think of a few notable examples.

The Elven King turned hopeful eyes towards the sunrise over Eryn Aduial. He had never seen the ancient forest before. It had been named by the Avari in their language, before the first sunrise, and the name translated into Sindarin as Forest of Twilight.

In the morning rays its vastness felt both overwhelming and familiar, reminding Thranduil of homelands lost long ago. For a moment Thranduil entertained the fantasy of a new woodland Kingdom, one which would rival the likes of Mirkwood. It was a beautiful dream, and he walked in it for a while, letting the morning sun warm his pale skin.

He was at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it - two chapters in one go! I hope you enjoyed them! I loved writing the current chapter and I am super hyped about the next one as well :D But yey, 35K+!!! This is the lengthiest thing I have EVER written and if it hadn't been for your support, I probably wouldn't have gotten so far :D Thanks again for reading and do leave me your comments - I'd love to hear your thoughts!!!


	10. Flight to the Forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10 - now beta-ed by Sky_sky :D   
> And here is Bard's map of the area: http://img06.deviantart.net/9910/i/2015/303/5/2/forest_map_by_alikuu-d9exx76.jpg

Bard woke up to the smell of dew and grass. He was lying on the lush turf, which covered the hill where he had fallen asleep, sheltered from the howling wind. Rising to sit up, he looked over the windblown mounds and green fields, hardly believing that he was no longer clutched in Newdalion’s grasp. Even harder to believe was that he had managed to rescue the Elven King as well.

The same Elven King, who had gently shook him awake and was now crouching close to him, his gaze turned to the dark line of Oakwood, which rested about half-a-day’s journey to the east.

“How long did you let me sleep?” Bard murmured groggily, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

“Just over a few hours,” Thranduil said. “The sun rose several hours ago, not that you could tell from the clouds, which cover her.”

The night had been bright and clear, however the day was heavily overcast, with grey clouds tumbling over each other and a strong wind, more characteristic for autumn than late summer.

“You think the sun is a her?” Bard inquired as he rubbed his face, trying to massage the marks the grass had left on his cheek. The scratch of stubble was becoming something familiar in the mornings, not that he minded it at all.

“Yes,” Thranduil said. “Her name is Arien.”

Bard was curious and asked about the beliefs of the elves, while he unpacked some salted meats and rye bread, which he had stolen from the palace’s kitchen. He offered some to Thranduil, who gladly accepted, eating with more zeal than Bard had ever expected from such a fine creature.

After the brief breakfast and the chat, Bard explained to Thranduil the route to Goditha’s fortress. He sketched a map of the Forest Road, which passed through the entire width of Oakwood on its way to Deorfald, the capital city of the descendants of the Rohirrim. Oakwood River crossed the road twice, once not a far from the Forest Inn, and a second time, just before the foothills of Oakwood Ascent, a mountain that stretched lengthwise through the forest.

It was near that second crossing that the secret path to Goditha’s hideaway was concealed, somewhere near the river, which they had to follow towards its source, deep into the mounts of Oakwood Ascent.

The girl had said that it was a solid three-day journey through the forest… if everything went well. As it was, Thranduil was chained and they couldn’t hope to move that fast. The restraints were a major liability, but they had to make do. Bard gave one of the two stolen sachets to Thranduil, secured the other along with his longbow and quiver around his own shoulder and they started making their way, painstakingly slowly, through the uneven lands towards the forest.

They hadn’t walked for more than half an hour when Thranduil stopped and trained his eyes on the low clouds to the south.

“What is it? Is it a search raid?” Bard asked, worried by the way the Elven King frowned at the distance.

“No,” Thranduil said. “At least not that I can see.”

“What do you see then?” Bard climbed on a nearby rock to get a better view of the horizon.

“I see unnatural smoke. Enormous black fumes coming from a large chimney...”

“Oh, it must be the Battery Factory.” Bard said.

“A human invention is creating such pollution?” Thranduil asked disbelievingly.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Bard said. “Remember when I told you that workers get sick over there? That’s why.”  
“That place should be destroyed. It reminds me too much of the works of our ancient enemies.” Thranduil declared. 

“It’s dirty and it’s not good but it’s hardly an unspeakable evil - it gives many people their livelihood when nothing else would.” Bard crossed his arms over his chest.

“There are other ways,” Thranduil insisted.

“Not while Newdalion and his court rule.” Bard shook his head, “But, we are going to overthrow him, right?”

Thranduil straightened to his full height and looked at Bard down his straight nose.

“I hope you would be a wiser ruler than him,” he said. “I expect that you would destroy that place and find better occupation for your subjects.”

“I am not going to be rule, Thranduil,” Bard said seriously. “Whatever birthright I had was lost long ago. The most I hope for is to help establish a new government, which I would support.”

“You are Girion’s descendant. Blood does not turn to water.” Thranduil disagreed.

“And what about what I want?” Bard argued. “I don’t want a crown. I saw what those lords and pompous upper classes are like. I don’t want to become like them.”

“That’s exactly why you would make a good King. You cannot run from your responsibility.”

“I’m not running,” Bard turned and took a few steps away in frustration. “No one would follow me, even if I wanted to be King. There is no point to this conversation.” Bard said with finality, before taking a deep breath and trying to change the topic. “Let’s go, I think I know this area.”

“Are we near to the town where you were born?” Thranduil asked, thankfully not pursuing the topic of kingship any further.

“Not really, it’s quite a bit to the North from here,” Bard said, picking his way through a thicket of bushes. “But Gaius took me to the outskirts of Oakwood to run and train on several occasions.”

“Is that the same Gauis that Newdalion had as a butler?” Thranduil asked, following Bard’s lead. They were walking amongst the wild, away from the road or any known paths, preferring the cover of the wilderness, while they were out in the open.

“Yeah,” Bard said, glancing over his shoulder to check the elf’s face. Thranduil’s expression was a mask of indifference. “So you’ve met him?”

“I would hardly call encountering that filth a meeting. He was always there to do Newdalion’s dirty work.”

“Oh, I know. He was assigned to be my tutor. He had some way with discipline.” Bard said, trying to make light of the cruel methods of Newdalion’s sadistic servant.

“He loves pain,” Thranduil agreed. “I would gladly give him his fair share of it, if I ever see him again.”

Bard glanced back to see a dark expression on Thranduil’s face. He didn’t have to ask to be sure they had suffered at the same hand, never missing an opportunity to hurt.

“I wouldn’t blame you for it.” the young man said honestly.

Around noon, the wind chased away the clouds and the sun, having reached its highest point in the sky, was beaming down on them, making the day warm and fragrant with late summer flowers and fruits. Bard’s stomach began to growl loudly once again and they had to stop for a short lunch break.

The Elf and the boy sat underneath the dappled shade of an Elderberry tree, chewing on their meager supplies, sipping from the water sacks and resting their feet. They were worried about possible trackers and didn’t want to stay in one place for too long, so as soon as they finished eating, Bard quickly packed the remains and led the Elven King further east through a low meadow.

They continued without breaks, only stopping to refill their waterskins and drink from a well, before finally reaching the first isolated patches of forest.

Chestnuts and oaks were gathering together the closer they got to the forest borders, and soon they were walking mostly under the shade of the trees, hidden from scouts and spies.

On several occasions Thranduil stopped to listen to the wind, hearing far away sounds of people moving along roads, which Bard couldn’t perceive. The elf was mostly silent, except for the times he suggested taking a detour, in order to evade travelers, or following the line of the trees instead of crossing a clearing, coaching Bard how to hide his tracks as they went.

“This is where Gaius made me run in loops,” Bard commented as they emerged from the trees into a familiar dirt path.

“Where does this road lead?” Thranduil asked.

“Nowhere, really,” Bard shrugged. “It starts on the main road, south from here, but there was no sign to what’s at the end of it.”

“Someone uses this path regularly,” Thranduil commented, looking at the soil, as if it was whispering secrets to him, a thing Bard couldn’t begin to fathom.

“Maybe Gaius comes running here,” Bard joked, but the Elven King did not laugh. Instead he took a few steps down the path, listening intently.

Bard watched him curiously, hearing only a few birds chirping and the buzzing of insects in the oaks around them.

“A lumberjack’s family lives there.” Thranduil said, making Bard raise his eyebrows incredulously.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“I can hear someone chopping wood with a heavy axe. It must be a man. I can also hear a child shrieking.”

Bard tried not to look too impressed.

“Perhaps we could use their help?” he suggested.

“We cannot trust anyone,” Thranduil stated, turning his eyes to Bard. “However, a lumberjack’s tools could be enough to take these chains off. We should go inspect.”

“You mean, spy.” Bard disapproved.

“And what do you suggest?” the elf opposed. “Introduce ourselves to these strangers? I cannot take that risk.”

“Not all people are evil. Surely you see that already?” Bard challenged but Thranduil was getting more and more standoffish and stubborn as the young man insisted.

“Here is what I see,” he hissed, lifting his cuffed wrists in front of him for Bard to lay uncomfortable eyes on. “This is what your kind is capable of. I will not risk being at the mercy of cruel men once more.”

Bard opened his mouth to argue, but realised that he wouldn’t be able to say anything to convince the elf. Words wouldn't work on Thranduil, only actions could repair the damage done.

“I’m sorry,” he said looking at Thranduil carefully, wanting to show him that he meant it. “We’ll do it your way, this time.”

Thranduil huffed a bit at the last part, as someone who wasn’t used to complying with other people’s terms, but didn’t comment.

The lumberjack’s home wasn’t too far and soon the young man and the elven king were lying on their bellies behind a band of bushes, watching a large man with dark skin[,] cutting an old, dry tree into pieces. He wielded a truly impressive axe, bigger than any Bard had ever seen, with what looked like considerable strength. He was naked from the waist up and the two had a clear view of his large, muscular arms and torso.

After watching him for a few moments, Thranduil shot Bard a superior glance, which could only translate as I told you so.

The man was indeed intimidating, at least as tall as Thranduil, and much heavier in build, which meant that if he wanted to, he could easily overpower both the restrained elf and the teenager. However that didn’t necessarily make him a threat.

“We wait until nightfall.” Thranduil decided softly as they watched the man walk over to a shack, which likely was his workshop and full of all kinds of tools.

“Ok,” Bard agreed tiredly.

…

Thankfully the day was almost at its end and despite the fact that it was dangerous to tarry in any one place, they didn’t have to wait very long until darkness covered the world. Thranduil led Bard a bit to the east, where they found a dry riverbed hidden by a small patch of forest. They camped under an old birch tree, sitting on some fallen foliage that covered the ground. Bard used the chance to catch a few more hours of much needed rest while Thranduil stood watch. When the Elven King woke him up, the darkness under the trees was almost pitch black and the young man could hardly see anything at all.

“How do you find anything in this dark?” Bard asked as he felt the ground with his hands, trying to find his bow and sachet.

He heard Thranduil’s chains click and his leather boots squeak before his things were handed to him. More than a little amazed, Bard gazed in the general direction of the elf, even if he couldn’t make out anything but a shadow where he thought Thranduil stood. 

“I see everything just fine…” Thranduil trailed off. 

Bard heard a muffled noise, which took him a few moments to identify as a chuckle. Did elves chuckle? Apparently they did, despite the fact he never thought he would hear such a sound from Thranduil.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, unable to suppress a tiny smirk, even though he could guess that he was the source of the elf’s amusement.

“You.” Thranduil said.

“I’m not looking in the right direction, am I?” Bard narrowed his eyes.

“No, not even nearly,” Thranduil said, still snickering. “You remind me of a rabbit looking around and trying to figure out where the hunter is.”

“Thanks.” Bard said. “At least you could have said a wolf, or a bear, or something…”

“A bear?!” Thranduil laughed, his voice ringing delightfully, full of mirth. “I think your self-perception might be a bit skewed.”

They both laughed at that and Bard found it relaxing and strangely normal for how easy it felt. However their levity died quickly, both of them remembering the circumstances that had brought them to the woods and that they were still being quite literally hunted. 

“Let’s go,” Bard said somber again, getting to his feet.

“Don’t you need to eat something before we go?” Thranduil asked.

“We don’t have much food left,” Bard said sadly. “I would rather eat tomorrow, first thing in the morning. And once your chains are off and we get to the forest, I would be able to hunt, so we should be fine with food.”

Thranduil nodded and did most of the packing, giving Bard his things, then taking his hand and leading him through the darkest parts of the forest, until the light coming through the trees was enough for Bard to make out his footing.

Soon they were once again crouched just outside the clearing around the lumberjack’s house, watching for activity from beneath the shadows of the trees.

The family seemed to be sleeping; the house was dark and there was not much sound coming from it, even by Thranduil’s standards.

Carefully, they walked into the moonlight, sneaking towards the shack, which stood a few yards away from the house. Thranduil used every cover he could find, a fallen tree, a workbench and a fence to hide from view as they approached the workshop, Bard following in his tracks. When they got to the shack, unsurprisingly, they found it locked.

“Damn it!” Bard hissed and looked around, nerves set on edge.

Thranduil took a deep breath and inspected the rusty old lock before starting to look around for something that might pry it open.

“Here,” Bard said, pulling out a bent piece of metal from a fence, which was falling apart. “I think this might help it come off.”

Thranduil turned the piece in his hands before nodding and setting the metal as a lever between the shack door and the lock. They both held their breaths as the Elven King used his strength to break open the lock with a low crack.

When no sound came from the house, both of them relaxed, glancing at each other with relief. Then Thranduil took a hold of the door and carefully pulled it open, going slowly and carefully, until all of a sudden, a loud screech came from the old hinges. Thranduil froze but it was too late.

A few moments of tense silence and then Thranduil looked at Bard with panic in his eyes.

“He’s awake,” he whispered.

Bard’s heart was pounding and he trembled as he also could hear sounds coming from the not so far away house. The large man was getting up and probably heading to check on his shack.

“Your bow!” Thranduil urged, turning to Bard.

“I’m not going to shoot an innocent man!” Bard protested.

“How do you know he’s innocent?! This is our only chance!” Thranduil hissed. When Bard did not raise his bow the Elven King’s voice turned feral with command. “I’m ordering you to shoot him!”.

“I will not.” Bard refused, holding the Elven King’s gaze, which changed from forceful to disbelieving.

The door of the house opened and the man came out, wielding the same axe, which they had seen during the day, but this time held as a weapon. Bard could see his silhouette against the moonlight, the man’s head was turned to them, immediately noticing something was off. He began walking in their direction with long strides.

“Run!” Thranduil urged under his breath. “Go now!”

“Stop ordering me - I'm not your subject,” Bard whispered, taking a step forward to place himself between the advancing man and the Elven King. “I know what I’m doing. Trust me!”

“Who’s there?” the lumberjack shouted in a deep voice.

“Just two travelers, down on their luck,” Bard called back, stepping out of the shadow of the shack and into the light, with his hands above his head, so that the man could see that he wasn’t holding a weapon. The teenager glanced at the Elven King meaningfully and thankfully, Thranduil followed his lead, moving out of the shadow.

“Oh yeah? Your luck really must have run out if you thought that you would steal from me,” the man growled, clearly not charmed. “Hey you! Put your arms up!” he commanded once he saw Thranduil.

“He can’t,” Bard cried. “He is in chains and he can’t move his arms up. That’s the reason why we tried to break into your shed.”

The hulking lumberjack came to a stop only a few meters away, keeping his axe ready and taking a better look at them. He tilted his head to the side at the odd image they were making, eyes scanning first the young man and then the elf, who had raised his chained hands in view from underneath his cloak, and whose long hair was falling over his shoulders like a pale waterfall.

Perhaps it was the strange pair they made that gave the lumberjack pause enough to hear them out, or perhaps it was something else. Bard saw the opportunity to continue.

“We are very sorry for breaking your door - we only wanted to find tools to remove those chains from my companion. Please, help us and we would be on our way…”

“Help you?” the lumberjack asked incredulously. “You come to my home like thieves in the night, you break into my workshop and then you ask me to help you? You must have some grand excuse for yourselves, because the only helping I am thinking of doing is re-decorating the landscape of your faces. That would teach you not to stalk around my house like criminals. Is that what you are? Escaped convicts?”

“Escaped slaves,” Thranduil interrupted, giving the lumberjack another surprise. “I was a slave to a rich man in New Dale and this young man freed me and has been trying to get me to safety. These chains I wear are covered in pure gold. If you remove them, you can keep them for your kindness, since we have nothing else to offer you.”

The lumberjack seemed to contemplate what was said for a while and then his posture relaxed, if only just slightly and he lowered his axe a little.

“I need to see you better before I can decide if I believe you or not,” he said. “I would go back to the house to get a lantern, but I can see the bow you carry now and I cannot risk turning my back for you to shoot me.”

“My companion is an excellent shot,” Thranduil said. “Had he meant to shoot you, he would have done it to your face, before you even realised we were here. He would not shoot you in the back.”

“That’s asking a bit too much trust,” the lumberjack said carefully. “But you are right, you could have killed me several times already. So why don’t you just come with me to the house, and we can do this like civilized people.”

Bard and Thranduil nodded, relaxing a bit, and followed the man back to his wooden house.

“Wait here,” the man gestured to a small table with a few logs, which served as chairs, just outside the house. When he disappeared into the house Bard shot Thranduil an angry look, which the Elven King returned with an unapologetic glare.

Meanwhile, the lumberjack came back with an old mechanical lantern, that ran on oil, instead of electricity.

“My name is Max,” he introduced himself, sitting on one of the logs and setting the light on the table between them.

“I’m afraid our names might only get you into trouble,” Bard said.

“I will not indorse the slave trade by giving you away. You can tell me.” Max said.

“I am Thranduil, and this is Bard.” it was the Elven King that spoke, surprising the young man.

“What kind of a name is Thranduil? I’ve never heard it before. You’re not from these parts?” the lumberjack said, squinting his eyes at the elf and becoming increasingly perplexed by what he saw.

“Not at all.” Thranduil confirmed.

“Who are you… Are you even human?” the lumberjack gasped, noticing the elf’s pointy ears and grasping the hilt of the axe warily.

“No, I am an elf.” Thranduil said, with no reaction to the threat of the weapon. 

“For the love of everything,” Max gasped, falling back in his chair. “I can’t believe my eyes. This must be a dream.”

“More like a nightmare,” Bard commented. “But you could help us - all we ask of you is to let us remove those restraints and we would be on our way, away from you and your family. Would you be so kind, please?”

“Where will you go?” Max asked.

“I would return to my kin and Bard would be free from his word to help me, so he could go anywhere from here,” Thranduil replied.

“Ok, keep your secrets,” the lumberjack raised an eyebrow shrewdly. “Knowing would only bring bad things to me anyway. But you must tell me, is anyone looking for you?”

“I’m afraid they might be,” Bard said.

Max nodded.

“I will help you, even though those golden chains would likely cost me my head if I try to sell them. I might just bury them for my little girl to sell when she grows up.”

The lumberjack led them back to the shack and inspected the broken lock, before opening the screeching door.

“That’s some nasty work you did there,” he sighed.

“Please accept our apologies,” Bard said. “We were desperate.”

“Ok, ok,” Max raised a hand to silence him. He then retrieved a sizable hammer and a chisel from his workshop and beckoned to Thranduil to go to a large anvil, which sat just outside the shed.

“Put your wrist there,” he instructed and the Elven King rested the chain on the metal surface.

“I said, your wrist,” Max corrected, his broad dark-skinned hand clasping around Thranduil’s wrist and placing it on the anvil in a way that would allow him to smash the cuff with the chisel.

Even in the low light of the lantern, Bard could see Thranduil bristle.

“Are you sure you can hit that in the dark?” Thranduil asked tensely.

“Well,” Max smirked. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

He placed the chisel directly over the lock of the shackle and raised the hammer. Thranduil’s hands clenched into fists and the elf squeezed his eyes shut in the last moment before the hammer fell.

With a sharp ring the shackle came apart, leaving the Elven King’s wrist free.

Bard let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Wow,” he commented.

“That’s one,” Max said nonchalantly, with the air of someone who was used to people being impressed by his skill.

Thranduil finally sucked in an audible breath, which made Bard chuckle.

“You ok?” he asked, reaching to touch his elbow.

Thranduil nodded tersely.

The second wrist was done in much of the same way, as were both his ankles, each hammer strike precise and efficient. In the middle of it all, a beautiful dark-skinned woman appeared at the door of the house calling to her husband.

“Max? What are you doing there? It’s the middle of the night!”

“I’m helping some friends out, dear. Get back to bed, I’ll be right there.”

“What friends?” the woman asked, walking over to see what all the commotion was about.

“This is Olivia, my wife,” Max introduced her.

“What happened here?” she asked, looking from Thranduil to Bard.

“He was a slave,” Max explained, gesturing to Thranduil. “I’m just helping him move on.”

Olivia gaped at the realisation.

“In that case, you are more than welcome to stay the night. I can bring out some food, and you can rest here...”

“We thank you for your hospitality, but we must be on our way,” Bard said, genuinely touched by the woman’s kindness. “We could bring trouble to your doors.”

Olivia and Max exchanged looks.

“In that case, the least I can do is give you a little something for the road. Give me your food sacks, I’ll be right back.” 

“Your wife is very kind,” Bard told Max once Olivia turned to hurry to the house.

“Yes, she is.” Max sighed wishfully, eyes trailing after his wife’s dear frame. 

Once all the cuffs, except for the collar on Thranduil’s neck were removed, the question of what to do with it remained.

“Let me see,” Max said, brushing Thranduil’s hair out of the way to inspect the collar. Thranduil gathered his hair in his hands and lifted it for the man to see his neck with the help of the lantern. In the warm light, Bard could see Thranduil’s strung up expression all too well. It was becoming quite clear that the elf disliked being touched by strangers. Bard wondered what it meant, that Thranduil wasn’t so repulsed by him.

“I can hit it,” Max said finally. “If you would let me, of course.”

Thranduil was silent for a few moments and then he nodded reluctantly.

Bard would have lied if he said he wasn’t nervous when the Elven King got to his knees on the grass and laid down his neck on the worn metal surface, pushing the strands of pale hair out of the way to fall over the edges of the anvil. The collar on his long neck was exposed, as were the fine lines of his throat, jaw and pointed ears. The the lock rested against the anvil. 

Max positioned the chisel over the spot at the front of the cuff and raised the hammer. Bard dug his nails into his palms.

“Here goes nothing,” Max murmured while biting his lip in concentration.

As he raised the hammer and sent it flying down, Thranduil gasped and Bard scrunched his eyes shut, unable to look, but then the ring of metal hitting metal and the sound of Thranduil taking in another sharp breath, made Bard peak with one eye, only to see the collar falling apart as the Elven King rose from the anvil, completely unscratched.

“Well…” Max said clearing his throat.

“That was a truly fine hit,” Thranduil praised somewhat breathlessly.

Max chuckled and then his laugh turned into a full hearted laughter of relief, which was so contagious that Bard almost immediately joined in and even Thranduil smiled, although his gaze was directed to the ground.

“You have my eternal gratitude,” the elf said, sincerely.

“And my thanks,” Bard added. “You did a good thing, sir.”

“Ah, well, what can I say. I don’t want to see anyone suffering in this way.” Max scratched his shaved head with one hand, suddenly a bit humbled. “My wife, Olivia, she was a slave before she managed to escape. I helped her…”

Bard and Thranduil exchanged looks with each other.

“Knowing what they’ve done to her, I can tell you that if I ever see a bastard, selling or owning slaves, I don’t know what my actions would be,” Max said, his eyes shining with an inner fire. “So you have my word, no one will know about you, not from me. I just hope that you are what you say you are, and not something else.”

“We have not deceived you, no matter what it might look like, given our introduction,” Bard said. “We just couldn’t risk approaching your house openly.”

“I can understand that,” Max nodded, looking between them thoughtfully. “It’s hard to know whom to trust these days.”

Meanwhile Olivia approached with Bard’s rucksacks, which looked filled to the brim, as well as two bags of packed food and drinks.

“Given what you had in there, I can tell you must be starving,” she said. “Here you go, dears.”

Bard and Thranduil thanked her and her husband profusely while the family assured them that it was no problem. Finally after goodbyes had been said, the duo left the couple behind, Bard turning to wave at Max and his wife just before disappearing under the treeline again. 

They walked for another hour or so, Thranduil’s step full of energy as a freed beast, full of enthusiasm to move, but Bard was soon tired again and needed sleep.

They found another sheltered place, almost at the Oakwood’s edge, where Bard could lie down and rest until the morning. Before sleeping, the teenager opened the bag, which Olivia had given him and gasped at its contents - there was everything, from sandwiches and fruits to cakes, and what looked like a small jug of wine. It was a feast to his starving belly and he indulged in polishing off half of it, before finally deciding he had eaten enough before sleep.

Thranduil was especially delighted about the wine and Bard ended up giving him his share as well, just to see the unbidden happiness on the elf’s face.

“I am sorry,” Thranduil said quietly after they had finished their meal and sat companionably under the stars.

Bard immediately knew what the elf was referring to but remained silent to hear him out.

“I made a mistake.” Thranduil continued. “The life of an innocent, honorable and kind man would have been lost, had you listened to me.”  
“Are you convinced now?” Bard asked.

Thranduil did not answer immediately, but when he did, his eyes were bright as if they caught and reflected every ray of starlight that fell upon the clearing around them.

“I still think that there is a lot of darkness in your kind, but I cannot deny, there is also light. It gives me hope.” The Elven King said.

Bard had hoped for more but he could work with the little trust that Thranduil was willing to give. For a moment he found himself studying the Elven King’s face more carefully than ever, eyes darting over the elf’s fine features, trying to judge his true mood and his meaning. However Thranduil’s expression was a wall - it was impossible to glean anything about what was truly going on inside the Elven King’s mind.

“I should get some sleep.” Bard sighed, giving up. “We have a lot of distance to cover tomorrow.” He said and rolled over to his side, closing his eyes.

“Sleep peacefully.” Thranduil said so softly that Bard could have missed it.


	11. Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Happy New Year!!! Enjoy :D  
> Now beta-ed by Sky_sky :))

“Are you sure you won’t be needing those?” Bard couldn’t help but voice his reservations when Thranduil took off his boots, dumping  them in the middle of the woods.

That morning, the two had left their camp on the outskirts of Oakwood, making their way through the final stretch of fields before entering the thick woodland just as the sun had begun to rise. Since then, it had scarcely been a few hours, but the air under the living roof of the forest was hot and  without  even a slight breeze to move the branches of the trees overhead.

Summer was at its end, but it seemed that the sun had at least one more scorching day to give. Back in Esgarothie, Bard would have loved such a day - he would have spent it swimming in the lake with his sisters and brother, teaching little Tilda how to swim and racing Bain and Sigrid to their special rock. Oh how he missed those soothingly cool waters, as he threaded over fallen branches and thick roots, trying to keep up with the elf, who seemed unaffected by the weather and joyfully at home beneath the myriads of fluttering leaves.

Thranduil had not slowed down his gate, making Bard skip after him, until the moment he had stopped to pull off the worn leather boots, which had gotten him out of New Dale two nights ago. The elf tossed the boots into the air with feeling, sending them into a dry ditch overgrown with thorny blackberries.

“Not at all. These were the worst boots I have ever worn. Wearing them, I made almost as much noise as you,” he said, standing now barefoot on the soft grass and dry leaves of the forest floor.

“I don’t make that much noise.” Bard muttered mostly to himself, and then louder “Won’t they provide an unmistakable clue to whoever may pursue us, that we went through here?”

“Only if they risk their skin to check into those blackberry bushes.” Thranduil smirked.

“This is no laughing matter-”

“I think we are rather safe.” Thranduil said dismissively and began to stroll barefoot into the forest.

Bard had to hurry after the elf, who true to his word, minus the leather boots moved soundlessly through the woods.

“We haven’t been hiding our tracks very well.” Bard commented, which earned him a huff of annoyance.

“And we don’t need to. In the forest, armed with your bow and my awareness, we have the advantage.” Thranduil said.

“I wouldn’t shoot a person.” Bard frowned, his breath coming out quicker as he tried to catch up with the elf, who seemed to be moving even faster now, the amount of trees and branches between them increasing.

Thranduil might have chuckled or said something, but Bard couldn’t catch the words. Suddenly Thranduil disappeared - the young man thought he saw him climbing a tree, but it happened so quickly and with such fluidity that he wasn’t sure  if his eyes hadn’t played a trick on him.

Scurrying ahead as fast as he could, branches hitting his face and torso as he made his way through the thickets, Bard stopped under the large tree where he thought  Thranduil had  disappeared.

“Thranduil?” Bard called looking around and overhead. “Thranduil!!”

“As far as leaving clues goes, shouting is far worse than a pair of discarded boots.”

Bard spun around and exhaled a sigh of relief when he saw the Elven King standing behind him.

“Where did you go?!” Bard frowned accusingly, ignoring his companion’s remark.

“Up there.” Thranduil said, pointing at the tree.

“Then how did you-”

“I jumped.”

A slow smirk spread over the elf’s face as he watched the young human’s uncomprehending expression.

“Show off.” Bard said finally, making Thranduil burst into a short fit of laughter before he regained his self-control.

“Don’t look so impressed.”

“I am not! I just thought you had...” the words ‘abandoned me’ were on the tip of his tongue, but before they managed to escape, Bard  rushed through his sentence , “ditched everything and run off into the woods.” 

“I am falling in love with this forest, but I have made you a promise - I will accompany you on your quest until the end.” Thranduil  declared .

“I do not recall you making any promises.” Bard said, looking at Thranduil critically.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have assumed that you understood,” Thranduil carefully scrutinised the young human with an unreadable expression. “Let me say it in a way that you won’t misunderstand. You have my word - I will return the favour, which you bestowed upon me - I will see you to safety, no matter where your quest may lead.”

Bard’s eyes darted over the ageless being before him, trying and failing to understand how he was supposed to have known that Thranduil had made up his mind about accompanying him to the end. He had perceived a small shift happening in the way Thranduil seemed to trust him and did not shy away from him, however what the elf was alluding to was way bigger and more complicated than a simple rescue mission.

“I busted you out of New Dale ,  purely thanks to luck. Now I have made an enemy out of the most powerful man in the North, who works with witches and keeps dragon eggs in his tower. I don’t know if what I did for you can compare to the mess I might have to drag you into.”

“I understand that you are walking straight in the middle of a civil war in the making.” Thranduil said gravely. “That’s why you need allies like me.”

“I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” Bard said honestly, eyes darting away from the Elven King. 

At the sight of such unguarded emotion and naivety, the ancient Elven King found himself at a loss, turning away and walking a small distance away. He stopped next to a large oak and distracted himself by gently tracing the lines of the tree bark, feeling it’s beautiful life force pulsate under his fingertips. The forest around them was buzzing with the same energy and to the elf it felt as if he was bathing in liquid golden light just by walking through such a wild and uncorrupted place.

But while his skin prickled with the celebration of life around him, his heart and mind were trying to sort out the confusing thoughts and feelings that Bard evoked in him. One question had worried him since the beginning and it was back now at full force. Why was this human willing to risk so much for him? For what reason had he foregone the transformation, from a hired hand of a criminal to a conspirator of a righteous rebellion and his saviour. Perhaps it was Bard’s nature all along and Thranduil’s appearance had just been the catalyst, however the elven king felt that he needed to hear Bard’s motives.

“Why?” Thranduil asked,  finally turning around .

“Why what?” Bard narrowed his eyes.

“Why do you care so much what would happen to me? Why did you help me? Why would you rather see me leave then come along to help you. Surely you realise what I owe you, what you can gain from me. You are not simple, I know it has crossed your mind.”

“A lot of things cross my mind,” Bard said carefully. “But I meant my words. I want no harm to come to you. Do you doubt me?”

“No, I do not.” Thranduil said. “That’s what worries me.”

“Why?” Bard shook his head disbelievingly, coming closer to Thranduil until he too put a hand on the tree, which the elf had chosen. “Why can’t you just accept my help and take it at face value?”

“Because I don’t know what that means.”

“Face value?”

“Helping me for no reason.” Thranduil rolled his eyes. “I preferred it when you were asking for something in return.”

“I would ask to take me with you to your realm, but I know that you would refuse again.” Bard said, but his tone wavered and Thranduil could tell that it sounded wrong to the youth even as he said it, as if even Bard did not believe he wanted that anymore. “And if it wasn’t for what I discovered in New Dale. I cannot leave the city and the people until I am certain that Newdalion and his corrupted court have been chased away.”

_ ‘And that is why you would make a good King, Bard, if only your stubbornness would allow you to see it’  _ Thranduil thought privately.

“My allegiance would bond only my life, no one else’s. It won’t extend to the warriors of my people,” Thranduil said instead. “You won’t get much more than me, but I still offer this to you. Accept my help now, or don’t, but know that I would not offer myself a second time.” 

Bard seemed to realise how important his next words would be, even if a mortal could never grasp fully the gravity of an oath that holds an immortal. However, he did not hesitate another second, extending his hand to the ancient elf in a gesture that was strictly human, bold and daring.

“It would be the greatest honour to consider you my ally.” Bard said holding Thranduil’s eyes in a challenge.

Having long made up his mind, Thranduil did not hesitate either, grasping Bard’s forearm firmly and shaking it.

A soft smile played on the young man’s lips as he released the Elven King and looked around, letting the tension of the moment ease.

“If you still want your answer,” he said just as Thranduil was beginning to turn away as well, “the answer is, I don’t know.”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow, waiting to hear more, but Bard’s gaze was on the ground by his feet and true to his words, he seemed a bit confused himself.

“At first I thought… I thought that it was because I really wanted something from you. Perhaps a verification, that I was worth something more than I thought I was,” Bard looked up through his dark eyelashes stopping the elf in his tracks, making him listen intently. “I wanted to prove myself to you and therefore redeem myself in my own eyes.”

“And now?” Thranduil urged softly.

“I really don’t know. Or maybe I do, but I don’t want to say something out of place.”

Thranduil couldn’t hold back a laugh.

“When has that ever stopped you?” he chuckled.

“Never, I guess,” Bard laughed as well, if only a bit nervously. “Perhaps I have started to enjoy your presence. I think that we actually make a good team. Like a friend. If you could consider me something like that.”

Thranduil turned his head away, searching his feelings to decide if that is how he felt for Bard. Perhaps it was - there was trust between them and they clicked, despite their differences. It still didn't feel completely right, but maybe their friendship was still in the process of being completely discovered.

“I could.” he said finally, a slight smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I would.”

Bard’s grin was dazzling in its brightness.

“Good.” he said. “Well, there's your answer then.”

…

They made good progress through the woods that day, taking their trip much too lightly for a pair of highly wanted men. If it wasn’t for the heat, Bard might have felt as if he was going on a vacation. It came as a relief when Thranduil announced that he could hear a stream and proposed to lead the way to the water. Their waterskins were growing light and they both needed to wash away the dirt and wariness from their bodies.

The sun was still high in the sky when Bard began to hear the ringing of a fuming stream over the constant whispers of the leaves as they gently trembled in the almost non existent breeze.

“Finally!” Bard exclaimed when the trees gave way to a clearing where a narrow river crossed their path. The water was shallow but very turbulent, skipping over slippery rocks and fuming white in it’s rush. Above was the first patch of blue sky that Bard had seen that day. It was a relief to leave the forest behind and breathe deeply in the cool air, moist and pleasant from the watery sprays.

Without bothering to unlace his sandals, the youth run towards the spring, sloshing in its shallow debts until he slipped on the mossy rocks underneath and spiralled face first into the icy water.

Before he knew what was happening, the tide was carrying him down the river, spinning his body over sharp rocks and ricocheting around fallen trees in a mad rush. It was numbingly cold and Bard’s muscles screamed as he floundered for purchase, fighting to keep his head over the surface, but finding that being a superb lake swimmer was doing him no favours in a stream so close to its source.

Before he slammed  his head on a rock or drowned, Thranduil gripped his tunic and pulled him up to his feet with surprising force. It all had happened so fast that Bard had no idea how he had gone from confidently entering the water to a shivering mess, chilled to the bone and absolutely mortified, clutching the Elven King’s worn shirt. He could feel his teeth chattering and his body quaking harshly from the shock of his near brush with death and the icy temperature, and he couldn't bring himself to look into the elf’s eyes from fear of the look he would see in them.

“Are you alright?” Thranduil’s voice sounded strange.

“I... “ Bard cleared his throat, looking through his dripping dark hair at Thranduil, thoughts of just how pathetic he must look swirling through his head until he realised that he might be seeing fear on the elf’s face for the first time. “I’m fine.”

Gathering himself, he lifted one foot from the water and removed a sandal, tossing it onto the shore before repeating the same process with the other. He was still shivering but in the wake of the receding adrenalin rush, he felt more giddy than remorseful.

Thranduil released him once Bard was securely stepping on the rocks with bare feet. It was a lot easier to balance over the irregular stones  that way.

“Do you need...?”

“No!” Bard said more forcefully than he had intended, attempting to  be  in control again. Embarrassment was quickly replacing his elation of being alive. Hurriedly he turned to the shore. He was glad that the elf said nothing, not even a ‘be careful’ when he nearly slipped once again in his attempt to disappear from Thranduil’s vision as quickly as possible.

Only once the young man sat down on the sunlit rocks by the stream, lifting his legs out of the stream to inspect the scrapes and quickly forming bruises that had formed there, did he notice the myriad of bleeding cuts over his arms and legs.

“Idiot,” he muttered to himself, hopefully quietly enough that Thranduil would not catch it.

If he had, he did not show it. Instead he busied himself with washing, standing in the middle of the stream with water fuming around him. Thranduil was clearly strong enough not to be bothered by the frosty tides scooping handfuls and washing his face and neck. The elf had discarded his travelling cloak, possibly in his rush to catch Bard before the river carried him away, and now he was rolling the sleeves of the shirt up over his elbows, revealing the white skin underneath it.

Bard found himself watching somewhat transfixed as Thranduil washed the dirt from his forearms and repeatedly splashed water over his face and neck. There was something mesmerising about the simple act, possibly because of the purposeful grace of each movement, behind every action there was agility, control, power. Bard found himself admiring him, wishing he could achieve at least a fraction of those qualities. Perhaps if he kept training. For all of Gaius’ horrible teaching methods, training for two months with him had already began transforming Bard’s body and had improved his strength and reflexes considerably.

However all idle thoughts of training flew out of the young man’s mind in the instant when Thranduil decided to take off his loose canvas shirt over his head and toss it on the shore. Thranduil’s long hair, wet at the tips, tossed around his bare skin, so iridescent, it shined like a pearl under the midday sun. And so did his hair, glowing white hot like a halo around the his head.

It really struck Bard how beautiful Thranduil was. Watching him, he could feel his heart pick up the pace and his breath catch, his mouth running dry. Perhaps he had stayed too long under the harsh sun and was getting dizzy. A strong desire to go back in the water seized him, making his stomach tight and sending a shiver down his spine, but the rational part of him knew that he had no desire to go back into that river and the sun rarely managed to make him dizzy. What was getting  him like this, then?

…

Meanwhile Thranduil finished rinsing his long hair and after draining it, he pushed it behind his ears and let its wet length fall over his naked back. He made his way through the water, a light breeze caressing his blushing skin, warming him after the freezing shower and drying the tiny droplets that still rolled down his arms and chest.

To his surprise, Bard’s mood had changed dramatically since he had last glimpsed him. The young human was sulking like a child with his legs pulled up tightly to his chest, sitting on a large rock with an expression that betrayed a completely rotten mood.

As he approached the youth did not even look at him, instead he remained frowning at the water, as if it had personally offended him. Thranduil had never realised humans were than uncoordinated, but then again, tales did say that they lacked much of the grace common among  the elves, especially when outside the structured environments of their cities.

Seeing the bruises on the young man’s feet and hands, Thranduil frowned even deeper. He hated how fragile his friend was - all it had taken was a small fall and now Bard was bleeding in multiple places.

“You could be more careful,” Thranduil said as he knelt by the stone on which Bard was sitting, turning his attention to those bleeding hands.

The youth gasped, turning his bright hazel eyes to him in surprise. It seemed that Bard had not sensed his approach, so engulfed in whatever inner world humans could disappear into so completely.

“It’s nothing,” Bard protested, but before he could get away, Thranduil caught his wrist very gently in his larger hand and held his movements. He felt Bard’s rapid heartbeat underneath his fingertips and Bard looked uncomfortable, mouth working but failing to form any sound. He blushed and looked away but made no more half-hearted complaints.

_ ‘Good riddance these humans and their pride,’  _ Thranduil thought as he turned his attention to the cuts. 

The young man’s palms, fingers and toes were riddled with small cuts, as were his elbows and forearms, but there was a darker patch under a scrape on the youth’s soaked knee, which suggested a deeper wound underneath the fabric of his pants. It worried Thranduil the most and he gently probed around it, causing fresh blood to trickle down Bard’s knee and his friend to hiss.

“I’m telling you it’s nothing!” Bard growled, waving his hands to chase him away.

Annoyed and wounded by having his concern and attention scorned, Thranduil pulled away.

“I think you should put that back into the water, if you don’t want it to swell so badly that you would need to limp your way through the forest,” Thranduil hissed in return as he got up and walked around the rock, which the youth occupied.

He tried not to show it, but he could hardly believe Bard had rebuked him so harshly. Not many could boast that they’ve had the King of the Elves, kneeling before them and offering such assistance, yet Bard had refused Thranduil’s help, as if he was some common servant. Thranduil could hardly believe the audacity, yet it was not that unexpected. He supposed that Bard did not truly comprehend how rare their situation was and what it meant to Thranduil to call someone a friend. All the more signals telling the Elven King that he had to tread lightly, no matter how certain he was in the goodness of Bard’s intentions. Despite gravitating to each other so strongly, they were very different and it was these differences that could cause more harm than good if left unchecked.

At least Bard followed his advice - Thranduil heard him getting into the water, more carefully this time. As the young man soaked his knee under the pretence of washing, Thranduil laid out his shirt to dry on a flat rock in the sun, before setting out to scout their surroundings. It was noon and a good time to fill their bellies again. Perhaps a little food was going to affect the boy’s mood favorably as well - like all children Bard seemed to grow angry when hungry, reminding Thranduil of Legolas when he had been an elfling. Smiling fondly at the memory, the Elven King followed the happy chirping of songbirds to a ripe berry tree.

Once he had collected enough berries, mushrooms, edible leaves and roots, Thranduil returned to find Bard sitting by the stream, half-naked under a dimpled shade.

“I figured I'd wash our clothes while you were gone,” Bard said, indicating Thranduil’s shirt and his own tunic, now clean, drying on a nearby branch.

“Thank you,” Thranduil inclined his head in a small nod before setting out to prepare their lunch.

…

“This is actually pretty good for a raw mushroom!” Bard exclaimed a bit later.

“My people call it Honey pot, a common mushroom in such forests,” Thranduil said.

“Funny,” Bard said. “It looks just like a very poisonous mushroom called Deadman’s foot. Wait! This isn’t Deadman’s foot is it?”

“Of course not! Only a human could ignore  the difference between them. Honey pots sing a song of the love of sunshine, the richness of the soil in the forest and the sweetness of summer. Deadman’s foot’s sings only about killing the insects that pester and bite them all day.”

“Oh…” Bard trailed off.

As they ate, Thranduil’s eyes darted over the slight, lightly muscled frame of the young human, finding signs of hurt, old and new all over his frame. Besides the newest additions of bruises and cuts, there were small scars, so faint that a human eye might not pay homage to them, with fading traces of yellowish and green bruises on his torso, back and arms. Bard’s skin was a map of suffering, the sight of which made a lump form in the elf’s throat, knowing that such was the nature of humans and there was little that could be done to protect them from that fate.

“Are those Gaius’ work?” Thranduil asked,  gesturing  to the older bruises.

“Yeah,  mainly from the sparring ,” Bard nodded.

“And what about that scar?” Thranduil pointed to a small burn scar on Bard’s left forearm.

“My house burned, with my father in it, as I told you,” Bard sighed. “I tried to go inside and save him, but was dragged outside by the neighbours. Not before my sleeve caught fire anyway.”

“I know a herb that could help erase it,” Thranduil offered.

“It’s an old scar,” Bard said, shaking his head. “Nothing can erase it.”

“This herb could,” Thranduil insisted. With the right preparation, the herb could perform miracles on the skin, he knew that from experience.

“Perhaps. But maybe I would rather keep it.” Bard said with a small smile, that seemed a little sad.

“Why?”

“As a memory.” Bard said.

“Wouldn’t you rather forget pain?” he found himself murmuring.

“Not if it’s the last thing I have left from my father.” Bard said.

The thought of the dragon and the loss of his wife crossed Thranduil’s mind for a moment, before he pushed them both away with vehemence. Swiftly and  without a word he got to his feet, leaving the young human to finish his lunch alone. He did not expect a mortal, so short lived, to understand what memory could do to an elf.

He had to clear his head.

…

The rest of the day passed quickly. They managed to reach the foothills of Oakwood Accent, just west of Oakwood River. At sunset they were camped on one of the smaller hills, having found a sheltered rock formation, jutting over the woods like a platform. The location was perfect, sheltered from the wind and enemy eyes by thick branches and standing stones. They could not risk making a fire, but there was really no need, given they still had provisions and the night was warm.

Bard gathered dried foliage to cushion the bare rocks during the night and when darkness finally fell over the world, hiding the nearly endless sea of trees, thousands of stars lit up the horizon and a growing moon cast its silvery glow over their camp.

Despite the long day of trekking and the tiredness of his body, Bard couldn’t bring himself to fall asleep, especially when he discovered that Thranduil was in a storytelling mood. He managed to get a couple of very good tales from him about an ancient Elven Kingdom, which wasn’t even recorded in any scroll that Bard had read, an enchanted forest called Doriath from which Thranduil claimed to hail. Bard did not know if he believed the stories of lesser goddesses marrying elven kings and veiling their domain in magic, but he listened with rapt attention as Thranduil told of the heroes amongst this ancient kingdom, an elf known for his swordsmanship called Mablung and Beleg, with his strong bow. Thranduil even mentioned in passing that at some point a human had become renowned in that land and had become an inseparable companion of Beleg Cutanion.

“Tell me of him!” Bard insisted eagerly. 

“That’s a story, better left for another time.” Thranduil shook his head.

“Why?”

“It is shrouded in darkness and I wouldn’t tell it at night, even in this green forest.” Thranduil said.

“Now I want to hear it even more.” the young man sighed. “Where were you during those days anyway?”

The moon had risen and set, but Bard felt not even a tinge of drowsiness, so enticed was he by the Elven King’s stories.

“I was in the King’s guard of Thingol. He was a Great King and a friend of my father.”

“What was he like?”

“He was… His presence burned brighter than the cold fire of a star. He was sometimes wise, sometimes passionate, always noble, even in his mistakes. We loved him and would have laid down our lives for him trice over.”

“Did you know him well?” Bard asked.

“I was the captain of his guard, so yes, I knew him better than most,” Thranduil chuckled. “However I wasn’t his friend, if that’s what you mean. I did not know the inner workings of his mind, but he did bestow his wisdom upon me on more than one occasion. I tried not to disappoint him.”

“What happened to him?”

“Many things.” Thranduil said and something about him seemed to have closed off. “Dwarves and war amongst them.”

The last words were nearly growled and Bard felt the need to change the topic.

“Is it true that elves have wonderful singing voices?”

“Some more than others.” Thranduil did not take the bait. “But I won’t demonstrate.”

“Why not? Could it be that I have found your one imperfection?” Bard teased playfully.

“I don’t have imperfections.”

“Why won’t you sing for me then?” Bard urged.

“I am not in the mood.” Thranduil said with finality.

“What would get you in the mood?” Bard shifted his position on his elbow to peer at the elf curiously.

“A lot of wine.”

“I will keep that in mind.” Bard laughed.

Thranduil chuckled as well.

“You better, if you want us to be friends,” the Elven King flashed him a conspiratory smirk.

“Seems like I found your weakness at last.” Bard continued with his teasing.

“I don’t have any of those either.” Thranduil shook his head.

“Sure.” Bard winked, and perhaps he imagined Thranduil’s high cheekbones flushing - it was hard to tell in the scarce light.

“If you want to hear the best elven singing, you would have to come to our festival of midsummer. Then you could also sample the finest wine and maybe, just maybe, catch me singing and dancing with my people.”

“I thought you would never let me into your kingdom!” Bard sat up suddenly serious.

“It would be bad diplomacy not to invite a neighbouring king into my kingdom.”

“Don’t think I don’t notice your poor attempts of manipulation. And don’t think that I approve.” Bard said, lying back down.

“Yet you are tempted.”

“We will see.” Bard said, flipping over on his back, eyes on the stars. He was tempted, in more ways than just one, and sleep wasn’t going come easily that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'm sorry it takes me so long to update, but between the holidays, work and life, there isn't always time to devote. Anyway, I'm sticking to this, for as long as you are, so let me know your thoughts and thanks again for reading :D


	12. Hidden Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter has some violence but nothing too gory  
> Also, here is a little locations edit: http://barduilrec.tumblr.com/post/137220679632/from-legend-to-myth-barduil-locations-so-far
> 
> This chapter is now beta-ed, thanks to Sky_sky!

“You can’t find them.” The Lord of New Dale’s voice was cold.

“There's no trace of them in the city. We also scouted New Dale’s surroundings, but there were no sightings.” His general swallowed with difficulty. “It was like they disappeared into thin air.”

Newdalion rubbed an impatient finger over his temple.

“Have you tried the woods?” he asked.

“We searched all settlements near the border of Oakwood, sir. They haven’t been seen.”

“And what about the actual forest? Have you sent men in yet?” Newdalion gritted out.

“I'll send troops right away, sir!”

“It’s as if you can’t you use your head, General,” Newdalion rolled his eyes in derision. “Don’t send soldiers into the woods - they are useless amongst the wilderness. Hire bounty hunters. Use stealth. Send them to Oakwood River’s crossing. If Bard is taking the Forest Road towards Deordalf, there is no other place he could cross the river. Have assassins wait for him there.”

“It will be done, sir,” The general stumbled over his words, faced with his lord’s sneering. “Do you still want Bard alive?”

“Preferably.” Newdalion sighed, attention turning to fixing imaginary ceases on his long, embroidered sleeve. “I don’t really care in what state you bring him to me.”

“And what about the elf?”

“I need the elf alive,” Newdalion sat upright, cold green eyes flashing. “And I trust that you won’t fail me on that matter.”

The commander hurried to bow and reassure that the task would be done before rushing to exit the Throne room.

“Your next appointment is awaiting your attention, my Lord,” a servant announced.

Upon the Steward’s signal, a grandiose set of twin doors opened, revealing a figure dwarfed by their size. The man was uncommonly large and round, dressed in gaudy garments of so many laces and intricacies that he resembled neither the merchant, which he claimed to be, nor the gang leader, which he was. Instead, in the light and elegance of the Palace, the Master looked like a clown.

Graham Newdalion’s features scrunched up in disgust as the red-faced criminal approached him.

“His most gracious highness has requested my presence?” the Master bumbled and bent in half, looking up with greedy, calculating eyes.

“I’d like to know everything there is to know about your previous charge, Bard.”

“Bard? Is he still causing trouble?” The Master raised his eyebrows and squinted his little pig eyes. “I thought your highness said that he was going to be dealt with?”

Newdalion sucked in a hissing breath, making the Master squander to his knees and bow almost to the ground.

“I meant no disrespect, your highest majesty! I am your most humble servant and only wish to serve you better! But if it is information you want…”

The Master’s voice trailed off into a whine, looking up at the Steward fearfully.

“Go on!” Newdalion commanded.

“I’m afraid I have never taken much interest in that troublemaker and he was not the sort to talk a lot either. I have already told you all that I knew of him.”

Newdalion smashed his fist against the handrest of the Steward’s chair making the larger man jump and shake nervously.

“However, however… I may know someone who might know more about Bard of Esgarothie.”

With those words something greedy began seeping into the Master’s eyes.

“In fact, I am quite certain.” He added with more confidence. “For a small price, I could find out… He had a friend - Percy, I think his name is. For a very small price indeed, I believe that boy would reveal everything there is to know about Bard.”

“And what if this Percy doesn’t want to talk?” the Steward of New Dale tilted his head to the side.

  
“He will talk. I guarantee it.”

....

“I have a lead on the little traitor,” Newdalion spat the words into the warded chamber, which housed his treasured dragon egg.

“Hm…” Nessamelda, ever present around the golden pedestal, ran a long-nailed hand through her red hair.

“Aren’t you in the least bit interested in getting that elf back?!” Newdalion turned to the witch, impatience boiling over.

“Not really.” she yawned.

“What?” Newdalion choked out in disbelief.

“I said, not really.” The woman smirked. Her swirling black dress shimmered with subtle brocade as she made her way to the other side of the chamber, closer to her lab desk.

“Besides the pleasure of wringing his neck, I don’t see what else he could have given me.” she glanced over her slender shoulder at him.

“What do you mean?” the Steward demanded. “You spent so much time playing with him - was all of that for nothing!?”

“Unfortunately, it seem so. He knew nothing.” Nessamelda picked up one of the long glass vials and lifted it to the torch light for examination. The dark substance inside it flowed lazily.

“You are still to tell me what exactly you did to him.” Graham gritted out.

“Nothing to get jealous about, dearest.” the witch laughed.

“But he was our only lead!” the man fumed. “You promised me… How are you going to find a way to hatch this egg?! I am really starting to lose my patience with you, Nessamelda!”

“Careful, dearest,” she said softly with a smile that did not reach her eyes. “For I may too begin to lose my patience with you.”

“I apologize,” Newdalion took in a deep breath, trying to regain his self control. He was not jealous and he did not mistrust her. She would be his and only his when he had full dominion over New Dale and it’s neighbouring kingdoms. The day was not far, he promised himself, and no blond elf, no handsome guard would catch Nessamelda’s eye. “You know I have not slept since that brat ran away with many of my secrets.”

“Yes, tiredness seems to be getting the best of you.” Nessamelda conceded without kindness. “You made a big mistake, sweetness, which could cost you much. I told you to kill that boy when you had the chance.”

“I made him an offer, which no sane man could refuse.” Graham’s tone turned livid. “I don’t understand why he would betray me!”

“It surprises me too how irrational some creatures can be.” Nessamelda agreed. “I trust that you will not repeat the same mistake twice. On another note, I have some good news for you. Would you like to hear it? It might just cheer you up.”

“What good news?” Newdalion looked up with interest.

“My agents in the Far North have brought me something useful.”

“Another elf?” Newdalion looked skeptical.

“Not even nearly,” Nessamelda laughed.

At her signal the door towards her quarters opened and two of her long-limbed, masked apprentices walked in, dragging a wounded dwarf along.

The dwarf was nearly unconscious, his sturdy clothing, which had once been rich was bloody and torn in places. His face was littered with bruises and his snowy beard was caked with dried blood and soot.

“This is Nain, a dwarf Lord from the Iron Mountains.” Nessamelda announced. “My spies believe that his people have coexisted with dragons for millennia and know a thing or two about them. Furthermore, he is far more cooperative than that elf.”

Newdalion took a few steps towards the dazed dwarf, looking at his pained face with growing delight.

“Finally.” he leered.

…

That morning Bard and Thranduil reached the deep, turbulent waters of Oakwood River, which crossed the forest lengthwise. The two escapees followed it’s roaring lenght south for many forested miles until by sunset they approached the point where it crossed with the Forest Road at the Old Bridge.

There was still a dangerous descent down the rocky hillside to be completed before Bard and Thranduil could reach the road, and over the eastern sky, violet and navy crept, seeping darkness underneath the canopy of the trees. They hurried to descend the cliff, hoping to find the hidden path to Goditha’s fortress and follow it to safety before the night forced them to rest.

Bard slid around a rock, pebbles tumbling down the slope, when suddenly his companion raised a hand in warning. The young man gripped a root and froze in place immediately, holding his breath and allowing the elf to listen. He knew that they were very close to the Old Bridge, because even his human ears could perceive the booming of the waterfall, which broke Oakwood River in half and slowed its mad current just before its crossing with the Forest Road.

All else was quiet, with the exception of the usual forest sounds and the insistent chirping of a bird somewhere in the trees around them. Nevertheless, Thranduil seemed on edge. The elf stood perfectly still and only the quick movement of his eyes, scanning the woods gave away that he was still a living, breathing creature, instead of a marble figure made by the finest of sculptors.

Slowly he turned to the youth, made a gesture to remain quiet and crouching low sneaked forward soundlessly. Bard attempted to copy him, half-crawling until they reached the edge of the next cliff. Positing himself on his belly next to the Elven King, he peered at the woods underneath.

“We are not alone,” Thranduil said softly.

“I figured,” Bard whispered.

A thrush landed next to them, peeping loudly. Bard waved a hand to chase it away, but Thranduil caught his wrist, giving him a warning look. The bird, despite having flown away, returned shortly. It landed on Thranduil’s shoulder, chattering in a way, that Bard could have sworn sounded offended.

The thrush kept making noises and Thranduil tilted his head towards it, as if he were listening. Bard’s eyebrows were scrunching further and further together in confusion as he observed the exchange.

Finally Thranduil turned back to him and the bird flew away.

“Don’t tell me you can talk to animals.” Bard said, trying hard to overcome his disbelief.

“Some animals feel inclined to talk to me. Others only after some persuasion. Some have completely forgotten how to communicate with elves.”

Bard just blinked at him incredulously.

“She said that there are three hostile men by the bridge. Two on our side and one on the other. They are looking for us.”

“Oh great.” Bard buried his face in his hands. “Did the bird say anything else?”

“She called you a few names,” Thranduil smirked, making Bard roll his eyes.

“What are we going to do?” the young man asked.

“It would be easy for you to dispose of them.” The Elven King suggested.

“I told you, I won’t shoot people.”

“Even if those people are after your head?” Thranduil’s eyes widened in shock.

“If I can avoid it, I won’t do it.”

“Do you think they are here to play?” the elf tilted his head, as if looking at the young human from another angle could help him understand. “They are killers!”

“And we are not!” Bard insisted, his voice rising sharply before quickly returning to a softer tone. “Right?”

“Killing in war and in battle is not murder.” Thranduil’s gaze closed off.

“This is not…” Bard trailed off running a hand through his hair.

He looked at Thranduil, trying to will him to see his point, but it seemed that he would have had better luck getting through to a stone.

“It’s wrong.” Bard said finally. “Shooting them without a warning is murder. I won’t do it.”

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed, but the rest of his measured features gave away nothing. The elf shifted his body towards the youth, lips parting for a long moment before he spoke.

“What would you propose then?” the Elven King asked slowly.

“Sneaking around them during the night.”

Thranduil seemed to be taking a deep breath, and Bard braced himself for some kind of an outburst. However when the elf spoke, his answer surprised the young man.

“Alright.” the Elven King said.

Bard sighed in relief.

“On one condition.” Thranduil added.

“What?” Bard frowned.

“If the situation calls for it, you will use that bow.” The elf demanded. “Understood?”

Bard nodded grimly.

…

They continued their journey as quietly and carefully as possible with the elf leading the way and the boy following in his tracks. They were nearly at the foot of the hill when Bard’s voice broke the loaded silence between them.

“I just don’t think that any situation is ever dire enough to murder.” he blurted out.

“It won’t be murder if we are under attack. Besides, I already agreed to doing this your way. We won’t attack first. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“It’s not about what I want! Killing should never be an option - there is always another way!” Bard’s tone was getting clipped, his earlier frustration only returning.

“Is that what you think? You are more naive than I thought. What do you suggest - talking?” Thranduil laughed mirthlessly. “I’d like to see you trying to talk your way out with an ork.”

“These are not orks!”

“Assassins.” Thranduil emphasised the word. “Little better than orks. They understand only one thing, otherwise I wouldn’t be asking this of you.”

“What about when you ordered me to kill Max?” Bard growled, angered by the way the elf didn’t even bother slowing down or looking at him as they argued.

“That was a mistake. One that I apologised for making. However, there is no doubt that these here are no lumberjacks - we have bounty hunters on our tail. You would do the world a favour by eliminating their lot.”

“Why are you so bloodthirsty?” Bard glared, grabbing Thranduil by the shoulder, making him come to a surprised stop.

“I do not like killing.” Thranduil said slowly, eyes commanding Bard to release him, however the young man did not submit to the formidable force of the Elven King’s gaze. “... But I won’t squirm away from it, when it is necessary.”

“And who decides that? You!? You don’t seem to shy away from violence as much as you claim.” Bard challenged.

“You know nothing about me!” Thranduil hissed, pulling away with force.

“I think I've learned a few things by this point.” Bard didn't let him go far.

“And what might those be?”

“You are fiercely protective of your own.” Bard crossed his arms in front of his chest, feeling the full frightening weight of Thranduil’s glare on him.“You would lay down your life for your people. But you are so mistrustful of all else, you would dispose of anyone or anything that gets a little too close.”

Thranduil’s lips slowly peeled away from his clenched teeth and his expression was becoming more and more feral, but Bard continued, determined to say everything.

“You see my people as a threat, and you react aggressively… But why?! Not all humans are evil - you saw that already! Why are you so angry? I don’t understand.”

“Why am I angry?” Thranduil narrowed his eyes and rounded on Bard until the youth was cornered against the stone wall of the hillside. “Do you really have to ask?”

Bard’s heart was beating frantically and instinctively he tried to retreat. His back met only sharp rock. There was rage written all over the Elven King’s features, which Bard knew he had provoked, but somehow he knew that Thranduil would not hurt him, even if by all means the elf looked ready to hurl him off the side of the cliff.

“I only wish to understand.” Bard softened his tone to an imploring one.

He was met with suspicion, but soon other, conflicting emotions seeped into the elf’s incensed eyes.

“I don’t think you could.” Thranduil said, voice sounding strained.

Bard wondered if it was still anger that gripped the Elven King’s heart. A myriad of conflicting emotions flashed over the elf’s beautiful face, so minutely, it was impossible to identify them all.  


Thranduil turned away and refused to face him, standing solemnly until just as suddenly, he turned back to the path and began making his way down. After a moment of doubt and hesitation Bard choose to follow him.

…

They waited for night to fully fall and their pursuers to fall asleep inside a rocky indent on the hillside. A curtain of hanging ivy hid the entrance of the small cave, which Thranduil found by the sound of water dripping into a hollow.

Some hours after sunset, the moon rose and thin rays of moonlight filtered through the hanging branches of the ivy plant. Thranduil did not utter a word, presumably listening to the movements of the bounty hunters’ camp. Bard was also silent, replaying their earlier argument in his mind and wondering if it could have gone differently. He hated the tension between them and did not want Thranduil to think that he was unwilling to listen, if the elf chose to speak about whatever he hid beneath that icy exterior.

“Thranduil,” Bard began, picking his words carefully. “I want you to know that my opinion of you hasn’t changed. I mean, regardless of everything that was said, you agreed not to hurt those men. Actions are what matters to me - not words.”

“I wasn’t worried about what you thought of me.” Thranduil said.

“Really? What got you so tense then?” Bard asked.

Thranduil did not meet his eyes, and Bard wondered if he would get anything more from the elf.

“You asked me earlier about the anger,” Thranduil began slowly. His voice was barely audible, just a breath in the night air and Bard had to strain to perceive his words.

“I did.” Bard prompted, leaning closer to the Elven King.

“Do you still want my answer?”

“Yes.”

Thranduil turned towards Bard and in the dim light, the young man was surprised how well Thranduil’s pale skin caught the light of the growing moon. It was as if each ray of moonlight reflected from it, softly glowing like a pale halo over the elf’s face and hair. Thranduil’s eyes shined brighter still, emitting a distant light, like the fire of stars long extinguished, only luminous in such an ageless being’s memory.

Looking into those brilliant irises for too long felt like falling, and Bard was glad when Thranduil began to speak, because a few more moments and he might have been lost.

“I have seen four ages of this world, lived for over 6000 years,” Thranduil said, lowering his gaze to the ground until his dark eyelashes cast shadows over his high cheekbones, making Bard bite his lip. “My people were invited to leave this world three times - once at the beginning of time, a second time at the fall of the first age, and a third time with the destruction of the rings of power. That was at the end of the third age.”

Bard’s eyes had been tracing the movements of Thranduil’s lips, but at the mention of the magical rings, his attention quickly returned to the elf’s words. He had read legends about the great deeds of the third age, many of which were regarded as fiction.

“Almost all of the elves left at the start of the fourth age. Our time on Middle earth had ended, as was prophesied. The last ports that could take my people away from Middle Earth were the Grey Heavens. Before long, they too were swallowed by the sea and the World was once again remade. Legend says that Cirdan the Shipwright would only leave these mortal shores after the last of the elves have sailed. However many believe that he has already left Middle Earth. Many say that those of us who have remained are forsaken - doomed to turn from legend to myth, until even those fade from memory.”

“You remained.” Bard prompted softly.

“I could not leave this world.” Thranduil nodded, eyes turning to the stars, visible between the hanging vines. “And neither could many of my people, the Sindar and the Sylvan. We traveled as the world we knew sank for the second time. When we discovered our long lost brethren, the Avari, we made a new home in their woods. They welcomed us and choose to accept me as their King. For a time I felt as if we were starting a new chapter in Elven history - we learned a lot from each other, many of our people married and elflings were born for the first time in many centuries. It was a time for celebration for us, however as time passed I began to feel that this joy was a fleeting moment before an even darker chapter of our existence.”

“The world had changed, weather we accept it or not. Our fate is to preserve this world, yet the humans have caused it to change rapidly, according to their own nature. I feel time slipping through my fingers like water, nothing stays the same, and when I first emerged from my woods in many years, I discovered a world so alien and so strange, that I... Your people have changed, and are changing the world along with them. I fear that soon there will be no place for us.”

“Why does Eru want my people to leave the world, in which many of us were born? Why must we give it up to humans?” Thranduil looked at Bard and his gaze was dark and bitter. “Once our people co-existed - why can’t we still?”

“It seems to me that when our people co-inhabited this earth, the world was still under Elven influence and humans were struggling to find their way in it.” Bard said, making Thranduil’s eyebrows rise and then scrunch in a frown.

“There is wisdom in your observation.” he sighed. “In the first age, that was certainly the case. However, during the second age both our people were rising in power - it was a time when humans advanced, and so did elves. Despite many believing that we were waning, I saw great things achieved and great unions and collaborations between our races. I wish for such a time to return.”

“Perhaps it could,” Bard said, smiling cautiously.

“I truly wish for such a thing to happen,” the Elven King nodded. “I believe it’s possible and it could begin when you become King.”

“You're never going to let that go, are you?” Bard smiled fondly.

“Hush! I think I hear something.”

…

The assassin’s camp had finally fallen asleep with only one watchguard left for the night. Under Thranduil’s instruction, the duo slipped out of their hiding spot and descended into the woods surrounding the Forest Road.

“Stay here,” Thranduil whispered and left Bard to await in a sheltered thicket of trees while he went to scout ahead.

The northern wind picked up again, jostling the living wall of the forest and bringing with it low clouds. Their dark mass rolled over the moon and stars until they were completely obscured. The night became a lot darker, and even with elven vision it was hard to see ahead. However, while it was said that elves could see clearly at night, only partially did their sight come from what their eyes could perceive. Thranduil felt the pulse of all living beings around him, some known, others strange and confusing. His steps were sure as he approached the bounty hunters’ camp, guided by the consciousness of the forest around him. Their small fire burned like a beacon in his awareness, guiding him as certainly as a lighthouse guides a ship.

A sense of growing unease made him stop. The forest around him was still, the quiet felt unnatural. He was aware of something, which was out of place, something that lay on his path. A thing that did not belong.

It was hard to make out anything in the starless gloom, so he used his other senses, crouching to the ground and running his fingertips over the damp forest soil. He felt a ridge in the dirt, followed it to a broken leaf and a trampled shape in the grass.

Rising, Thranduil ran his hand over the bark of a young oak tree, listening to its troubled whisperers. He found what he had been looking for - traces of violence over the smooth skin. Someone had broken a branch, bent the young tree in half. No doubt a trap had been set, one too big to catch an animal. This trap was laid for a human.

The elf turned his radiant eyes to the oak’s crown. It was entirely too dark to disarm traps, however he couldn’t let it remain loaded to capture some innocent forest animal. Deftly he climbed the lean tree, mindful of his weight and balance, in order not to damage it’s delicate branches. He found the rope and for the lack of a better tool, used his teeth to bite through it.

As soon as the trap was released, a mechanical alarm sounded, startling the Elven King. Thranduil sat upright on the branch, heart beating fast as he processed the piercing noise, which no doubt had already alerted the bounty hunters of his presence.

The elf jumped from the tree and ran. In the distance he heard the aggressive barking of large dogs.

“Valar! Thiol u-vain!” he cursed as he raced towards Bard’s location.

Somewhere to the north-east another alarm sounded.

“Sevin u-estel!” he cursed again, knowing that there was only one other who could have set off the trap.

…

“Fuck! Fuck!” Bard fought for purchase with the net, which had him suspended in the air.

Once he had heard the wailing noise in the distance, he had drawn his bow out and ran blindly towards the sound, afraid for Thranduil’s safety.

All earlier doubts about killing were forgotten as he raced through the darkness, until suddenly he felt the ground spring up from underneath, ropes surrounding him and roughly sending him up into the air. He was captured in a net and was currently dangling helplessly off a tree.

Bard fought, trying to get loose, but it was impossible to move with his feet and hands tangled. Suddenly Thranduil jumped out from the trees and looked up at him.

“Bard!” the elf cried.

“I’m alright,” Bard called back, breathless with relief upon seeing the Elven King free and unscathed. “I thought you got into trouble!”

“Your bow!” Thranduil cut him off and Bard pointed to the ground where his bow had fallen from his grasp the moment he had been caught in the trap.

“Arrows!” Thranduil shouted, snatching the heavy longbow from the earth.

Bard struggled inside the net for several tense seconds, trying to reach the quiver on his back.

“Hurry!” the Elven King commanded.

Bard flailed around helplessly, too tangled in the ropes to even touch them.

“I can’t!” he choked out. “I can’t reach them!”

Meanwhile two large bulldogs jumped out of the woods and attempted to attack Thranduil. The elf gracefully evaded both attacks, jumping high in the air and grasping the ropes of the net. Effortlessly he climbed up, as if it was nothing. The tree, which supported the trap was young and bent lower with the combined weight, bringing Bard’s legs dangerously close to the enraged dogs.

“Thranduil!” Bard shouted in horror as his suspended feet dangled over the jumping bulldogs below.  
Meanwhile Thranduil reached a hand inside the net to pull out as many arrows as he could reach. He bent over the edge and tried to aim as Bard kicked and wriggled in his attempts to avoid the dog’s jaws.

“Don’t move!” Thranduil growled somewhere near Bard’s head. “I’m not very good at this.”

“Are you fucking shitting me?!” Bard shouted but froze in place for one tense moment when he heard the Elven King suck in a breath and hold it.

One keen arrow flew through the air and lodged itself straight down a bulldog’s opened mouth. The animal fell dead, while it’s companion managed to catch Bard’s sandal, teeth grazing the young man’s foot.

Bard let out a cry of pain.

Thranduil jumped off the net, sending it flying back up and making the dog let go of Bard’s foot.  
The bulldog fell to the ground and shook its head, jostled from the fall. Meanwhile Thranduil bit onto his two spare arrows and aimed a third one at the animal’s head. The elf let loose the bowstring and the second bulldog was instantly dead.

“Put down the bow!” a man’s voice bellowed from the woods and the Elven King immediately spotted the three bounty hunters, approaching through the forest with ropes and nets in their hands. “I said, put down the…”

Another arrow flew, piercing the assassin through the neck and killing him in a heartbeat.

Thranduil spun around and held his breath, aimed and fired at the second man, who unwisely thought he was hidden by the darkness of the forest.

With one last enemy left, Thranduil’s hand instinctively flew towards his back, but found a quiver empty of arrows. The last bounty hunter saw his sad lack of ammunition and used the opportunity to dash towards him, one hand armed with a knife, the other welding a cruel whip.

Thranduil threw the bow to the side and lunged at the bounty hunter, avoiding his knife attack with practiced grace, however the whip managed to catch his forearm, wrapping around his flesh and eliciting a pained cry from his lips. The bounty hunter pulled, but Thranduil was faster, following the whip’s length towards the man, jumping and rolling over his back. Once behind him, Thranduil kicked his right knee, sending the bounty hunter howling to the ground.

Bard, who was still bouncing up and down with the net, watched Thranduil wrap the whip length around the man’s neck twice before pushing him face first into the forest soil. There he wrestled the knife from the bounty hunter’s right hand, while using the whip, still wrapped around the elf’s left forearm, like a noose.

The knife fell from the assassin’s hand making the fight’s outcome certain and Bard looked away from the scene. The wet sounds which followed told him everything he needed to know.  
The alarm’s piercing cry did not falter once it’s creators had been slain. Despite its loudness, somehow all Bard could hear was the frightened rhythm of his own heart and Thranduil’s short breaths.

The elf was first to recover, disentangling the barbed leather of the whip from his flesh and rising to his feet. He lightly climbed the tree, which held Bard prisoner and disabled the alarm. The silence that remained was deafening.

“Brace yourself.”

The rope was cut with the assassin’s knife and Bard tumbled to the ground, frantically kicking off the net and dislodging himself. He felt his limbs shake as if bitten by a cold, suddenly frantic to get as far away from the net and the blood that covered the ground around him.

His foot was bleeding too, Bard noticed. There were dark streaks of blood, but it was as if they were not his own. After the roar and chaos of all that had happened, he could feel nothing, perceive nothing.

“Come.” Thranduil was guiding him away, leading him through the trees towards the river. Bard’s eyes slid over the darkness between the branches, unseeing and uncaring of where he went.  
“Bard. Are you alright?”

He was made to sit on a raised root and Thranduil was on his knees in front of him, holding his face between his pale hands. The elf’s eyes were searching his own, but Bard could not meet them.

Suddenly he was pulled into an embrace, face tucked against Thranduil’s breastbone, while the elf’s chin rested over the top of his head. Held in those strong arms, Bard could hear the elf’s steady heartbeat and then, slowly, a rumble formed inside that broad chest, a sound so sweet and so heartbreakingly beautiful that Bard felt tears prickling in his eyes.

It took Bard a moment to realise that the Elven King had begun to sing. He could recognise words, but did not understand their meaning. The song felt ancient like the hills around them, wild, like the turbulent currents of the river and beautiful like the stars, which once again peered between the branches of the the oaks above.

Soon the song chased away the shadow, which had descended over Bard’s mind, releasing his heart from the chill of death and sorrow. Instinctively, the youth lifted his arms and closed them around the Elven King, clinging to him like a drowning man to a straw. In that embrace he allowed light to spread through his chest and slowly relaxed his hold, allowing his hands to move over the Elven King’s back, caressing the strands of silky hair, which his fingertips found.

Bracing himself with a deep breath, Bard pulled away and looked up. Thranduil had long finished the song and was looking at him carefully.

“Thank you.” Bard whispered, words catching on the thick lump, which had formed in his throat. “For saving me.”

“I am sorry for leaving you alone.” Thranduil shook his head.

“No. I shouldn’t have run through the woods like that. It was my fault that it happened.”

“Enough.” the elf said. “I need to bandage your injured foot and my arm before we continue, but I must have your word that you won’t move from this spot until I return. No matter what happens. Do you promise?”

Bard was too exhausted to protest.

“I will be back before the turn of the hour and I will be in earshot. Call for me if you need me.”

With that Thranduil disappeared into the woods to gather herbs and plants for disinfecting their wounds, while the young man’s thoughts turned to what had just transpired.

Everything had happened so quickly and so violently, that for the first time Bard could see how trying to reason with those men hadn’t been an option at all.

A sudden rush of nausea made the young man churn to one side and empty his stomach. Coughing he sat back up and waited for Thranduil to return. He wondered if he could ever get used to the kind of brutality that he had seen. He didn’t want to believe he could, but the grim, astute part of him knew that he wouldn’t be given a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do wonder what you make of this chapter, so don’t forget to leave me your thoughts!


	13. The Escapees Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy this chapter!   
> Special thanks to Sky_sky for finding the time to work on the beta!

That night Thranduil cleaned and bandaged Bard’s foot before moving to his own injuries. The barbed whip of the bounty hunter had torn through the Elven King’s canvas shirt and left nasty lacerations over his arm, but thankfully there had been no poison to slow down the fast healing process of the elves. What Thranduil worried about more was shock, which Bard had suffered. The youth’s innocence had surprised the elf - the world, into which Thranduil was born had been violent and bloody, and even the smallest elflings had been taught to kill in order to defend themselves against the forces of the Enemy, which plagued the First Age.

However the world had changed, and so had the lives of men. Bard had not killed before, that much was painfully obvious. Thankfully, unlike elves, men had the capability of recovering quickly from mental ills, so Bard was already perking up. He seemed a little shaken, but much better and burning with impatience to continue their journey.

Luckily, Thranduil stumbled upon the hidden path while gathering healing herbs, so he wasted no time to lead Bard over the Old Bridge and beyond. They followed the scarcely used trail to a cave, which had two openings. On its other side, they found a secluded rocky path leading them between the hills. They followed its steep ascent, climbing on the side of the forest river and disappearing between the dark overhangs of the sleeping mountain.

...

The incline would have been challenging for a human even during broad daylight, therefore it was even harder for Bard, who was nursing a wounded foot and had to stumble into the darkness of the wee hours of the night. Despite Thranduil’s best attempts to clean and bandage his foot, soon the young man realised that he could barely walk with the sharp pangs of pain shooting through his entire leg every time he took a step. It was hard to conceal it from his companion, who kept shooting him worried glances over his shoulder, but Bard kept going, stifling the sounds of agony, which tried to escape his lips.

They had been climbing for a while when Bard began to feel oddly breathless, sweating more than he should and strangely dizzy. He felt hot and cold all over and swayed dangerously as he took painful steps after the Elven King. He almost startled when Thranduil turned to him and insisted on inspecting his wound again. His odd confusion did not go unnoticed by the Elven King, who made him sit and began unwrapping his bandages with care.

The drizzle from the nearby waterfall carried through the night-time mist and Bard felt somewhat relieved for the unwanted break, despite protesting to the Elven King’s dotting. The cool breeze was welcomed on his heated features and the young man undid the collar laces of his sweaty tunic, seeking to allow more moist air to sooth the burning of his skin.

Meanwhile, Thranduil, did not like what he saw under the dressing of Bard’s injury. The flesh looked darkened and swollen, oozing pus from the punctures left by the dog’s teeth. Thranduil glanced up at the youth’s face with a deepening frown. He worried about the sheen of sweat over Bard’s flushing features and the trembles that shook his frame.  
  
“I think you should rest.” he said. “I will boil more herbs to wash your wound again and then you may sleep.”

Bard wanted to argue that he was fine, but in reality he felt too heavy and drowsy to do anything besides groan in annoyance.

Thranduil instructed him not to move and went to scout ahead for a place to camp. When he returned, the Elven King said that he had found a cavern nestled amongst the vertical rock faces of the mountain and looking away from the Forest Road. It was a good place to light a fire without being seen. Bard rose and followed the elf with difficulty, the pain in his leg having only worsened after the break.

The moon was setting in the Western sky and the night had reached its darkest point. Bard couldn’t tell if it was that or something else that made him almost blind to his surroundings, as if a heavy curtain had fallen over the edges of his vision. He stumbled, but he pushed on, trying his best not to worry his friend any further. Once they reached the secluded area, the youth threw himself over the dewy rocks, pressing his burning cheek against the cool surface and letting out a content sigh.

Bard did not realise he had fallen asleep until he was awoken by Thranduil, who had boiled a healing brew and was asking him to drink it. The Elven King’s mouth was set in a deep frown but Bard’s eyelids felt heavy and sleep was reaching to take him into it’s lulling embrace. The last thing he remembered was being lain down on the ground and tucked in with the elf’s cloak.

...

When he next regained consciousness, Bard was only aware of the way he was jostled and the noise of someone’s heavy breathing nearby. His mind was in a daze, so it took him some time to realise that he was being carried on Thranduil’s back, the elf running up the acclivity of the path using all of his unnatural stamina to propel him forward.

Opening his eyes only slightly, Bard noticed that he must have slept through the entire night because it was daytime and the sun was high in the sky. Somewhere close by he could hear the rumble of the mighty Oakwood River, delving its way between the rocky mountain cliffs.

Bard tried to say something to Thranduil, but his mouth did not comply and the only thing that came out was a strangled groan. His head felt too heavy, he couldn’t hold it up so it rolled back down on the elf’s shoulder. There was a terrible cold all over his limbs and he shook harder, unable to suppress the shivers despite the cloak wrapped around him and the brightness of the midday sun. Then he felt the darkness rise up to swallow him whole once again.

…

The sound of hoofs echoing between the forested cliffs was at once Thranduil’s worst fear and biggest hope. The Elven King had climbed through the day, by his calculations the elusive fortress, which they sought couldn’t be much further away, however there was no guarantee that the fast approaching riders were friends instead of foes.

Much like the dying light of the evening sun, Bard’s life force was waning. When the young human’s temperature had risen the previous night, Thranduil had not known what to do. Elves almost never fell sick, at least not in the same way as humans did. At first Thranduil had waited and hoped that the herbs would help - they were common things, used to clean wounds - the kind that even a King would recognize. Alas, despite his best attempts, the wound had festered.

Then Bard had begun to trash and talk in his sleep, as if gripped by a violent nightmare from which he couldn’t escape. Thranduil had never been interested in the healing arts and for the first time in his long life found himself cursing his inability to produce therapeutic potions or sing healing verses. His worry had risen to near panic when he had touched Bard’s skin and found it clammy and burning unnaturally. Somewhere near the middle of the night, Thranduil had made a choice, snatched the youth and mounted him on his back, leaving everything behind, with the exception of Bard’s favorite longbow.

He had run up the mountain path ever since, without stopping for respite or substanence - spurred by the fear of losing Bard’s life and the desperate hope that the humans in the fortress knew how to cure his affliction.

At present a group of riders were rapidly approaching. Thranduil could estimate their number to no more than ten, however their origin remained to be seen. He came to a wary stop, gathering his breath and preparing for the inevitable encounter. When the hoofs were right around the corner, the Elven King whispered to his unconscious companion,

“Enni... Avo dhavo. (Please, don’t succumb.)”

Unsurprisingly, the plea went unanswered. Bard was as slack as he had been for the past few hours, but perhaps Thranduil needed to say it outloud, as he had spoken to Bard nearly the entire day - willing him to survive, pleading with him not to give in so soon. Mortality was a concept, which Thranduil had never expected to experience so personally. Yet here he was - beginning to understand how some elves willingly subjected themselves to its bitterness by becoming captivated by humans.

It had happened so seamlessly, slipped easily under Thranduil’s skin like the hooked thorn of a wild flower. He hadn’t even noticed it until it began to hurt - this attachment he had formed to Bard. Bard, the impossibly young creature, who was at once innocent and inherently wise, who held goodness and generosity beyond his years and experience. Bard, whose courage and resolve stemmed from some unknowable place, which Thranduil wanted to discover and understand. Bard, who had made the Elven King experience the world anew, see it effervescent and finite, as a creature, who cannot enjoy it forever, but at least is free from its chains. Every moment was all the sweeter, because it was fleeting and unique, the feeling was electrifying and addictive, made all the more insidious by how little new Thranduil had left to experience on his own. He was not ready to give all of it up, and prayed for Bard to refuse the calls and stay within the circles of the world - the only place where elves and men could exist together.

The riders appeared in his line of vision - ten women, all dressed in light armour, some wielding spears and swords, others bows and long daggers. They spotted him in return and their leader commanded the group into a battle formation. He did not flinch as they rode towards him and surrounded him, their weapons raised at him. Once the riders came to a stop, the tips of their spears pointing at his neck, their commander, a blond woman with braided hair and tanned face, got off her horse and approached Thranduil boldly.

“Who travels on this path?” she asked. “What is your business here? Reveal your identity now!”

“And if I don’t?” Thranduil met her demands with a challenge of his own.

“Then you would meet your death on the sharp rocks below.” she gestured towards the echoing gorge on the side of the path.

Something about the freedom in her manner and the way she was dressed in light leathers instead of heavy armour baring Newdalion’s crest, made the Elven King certain that these were Goditha’s riders, not the Steward’s scum.

“I am running from New Dale.” he said truthfully. “I carry with me a human. This is Bard of Esgarothie. He is terribly ill and needs immediate help.”

The rider scrutinised him for a few seconds, eyes darting over his form and that of Bard on his back with barely concealed bewilderment.

“You must be the elf, which Masego spoke of. I was convinced the old man was rambling, but there is no denying what I can see with my own eyes. But is this truly the rightful king of New Dale? What happened to him?”

“We were attacked and he was bitten by an animal. But will you question me while he fades or are you going to help him? He needs to be seen by your healers right away!”

“I will be the judge of that!” the horse riding commander said angrily, clearly not happy with being ordered around by a stranger. She made a gesture and the spears were lifted, allowing her to step closer to the elf.

“Let me see him.” she said and visibly flinched by the aggressive look Thranduil shot her.

Nevertheless, he gently lowered the unconscious teenager to the ground for inspection. Bard was shaking with fever, his face was reddened and his damp hair was sticking to his furrowed brow. His face was creased in suffering and it made Thranduil’s gut churn. Internally he was close to snapping at those humans for wasting precious time, but he controlled himself, knowing they were Bard’s only hope.

The female commander reached for the bandaged wound, but Thranduil stopped her with a cold glare. She let him unwrap the wound himself, which he did with the utmost care. The sight that greeted them made them both wince. The wound was severely infected, pus formed around the bite marks and the flesh in between was raw and swollen.

“Give them a horse!” the commander shouted and one of the riders jumped off her horse to offer it to Thranduil before climbing behind her mate.

Without question, Thranduil swiftly covered Bard’s wound and picked up the youth’s smaller form in his arms. His aching muscles protested, tired from the full day’s run. However he had enough strength to lift Bard on the horse, place him at the front of the saddle and then nimbly climb up behind him.

“I trust that you know how to ride?” the commander asked.

Thranduil wrapped one arm around Bard to keep him stable, gripped the reins in his other and nodded curtly.

“Then go! We should make haste.” she said, turning her horse and spurring it into a gallop over the aclivity of the path.

Thranduil followed closely behind, the rest of the riders surrounding them. Soon the natural path became so rocky and narrow that they had to ride in rows of two and decrease their speed for the sake of the horses. The Elven King rode alongside the commander, and she finally introduced herself as General Brun of Goditha’s cavalry.

The path separated from the side of the river, climbed up a winding slope and was soon surrounded on both sides by sharp overhangs, which grew until they were passing through a narrow gorge. The passage could allow only one rider at a time to go through it, so they rode silently in a column of one.

Night fell and stars rose in the sky by the time they emerged on the other side. That’s when Thranduil finally saw it - the beautiful, green valley in the heart of Oakwood Accent, surrounded from all sides by tall forested mounts halfway covered in green before shedding their woodland dress and baring their naked rocky peaks. Amidst it all was an oasis of a human settlement, a large fortress guarded by walls overgrown with ferns and ivy. At dusk it was lit by lanterns, spreading a warm glow through the cool night air, beckoning to the travelers to come home.

The road widened once they reached the valley. It was stone laid and well maintained, more suitable for horses, allowing the riders to gallop at full speed towards the fortified gate. Thranduil’s hroa was exhausted, but his fea was set ablaze with hope as Brun’s riders rushed through the gates and galloped over the paved roads of the Fortress, passing gardens, squares and bridges. They passed another set of gates at the highest level of the encampment, entering a large courtyard.  
The riders came to a stop in front of a stone staircase at the foot of the Central Hall. Thranduil jumped off the saddle and took Bard in his arms, surging after Brun up the steps and into the main building. Around them humans were rushing, some leading the way, others running to alert the healers and the rulers of the keep. A nurse opened a large wooden door for them and they burst into an infirmary.

They beckoned Thranduil to an empty bed, where he placed the dark-haired youth and stepped back to look at him. The journey had taken its toll on Bard and before the elf’s horrified eyes the young man’s trembling turned into full body convulsions, his eyes rolling back.

“Heal him! Now!” Thranduil screamed.

… 

Some time later, Bard woke to the fragrance of forest herbs and the distant rumbling of a waterfall. He found himself in a serene bedchamber, which he saw through the dark eyelashes of his heavy eyelids. Golden light was coming from the opened windows, as well as a gentle breeze. It whispered in the petals of the fresh flowers, which someone had left on the nightstand beside him. Blinking the tiredness away, his attention snapped to the rustle of silks on his other side and with great difficulty, Bard tilted his head in that direction.

The sight that greeted him was once again unexpected, but even more welcomed than the peaceful and comforting environment, in which he had awoken. There he was - the Elven King - sitting on a wooden chair beside his bed, dressed from head to toe in long, snow-white robes adorned with silver thread and tiny river pearls. His pale blond hair fell down his chest, long and silky, and his beautiful face, even drawn in tension as it was now, appeared so ethereal that Bard thought he might still be dreaming.

“You look different.” Bard mumbled between parched lips.

Thranduil’s features went from wary to disbelieving and then suddenly the elf began to laugh sweetly and in genuine relief, before he rose from his seat and leaned over Bard to place a tender kiss on top of the youth’s dark-haired head.

Bard’s heart skipped a beat and he blinked in surprise, suddenly enveloped in the blond waterfall that was Thranduil’s silky hair. Before he could do anything, Thranduil pulled away, but only enough to perch on the edge of Bard’s bed, crossing his long legs and leaning forward to look at Bard attentively.

“What was that about?” Bard asked, a grin that he could not control splitting his face. His voice sounded hoarse with disuse, but his mood had suddenly improved tremendously despite the pains and dizziness he felt in his body.

“Eglerio!” Thranduil sighed in his language. “I am glad to see you awake, mellonamin*.”

“How long was I out?” Bard asked, still very confused by Thranduil’s behavior.

“It’s been seven nights since you succumbed to the terrible fever.” Thranduil said, his brows scrunching in displeasure at the memory. “Several days passed since your healer declared that your fever had passed and that all we could do was wait for you to return to us.”

“My healer? Where are we? Is this Goditha’s fortress?”

“Indeed it is.” a smile graced Thranduil’s face again, making something in Bard’s gut twist in trepidation. “As for your healer, I think he might want to know that you are awake.”

With those words Thranduil got up and slipped out of the door, leaving the still stunned young man with a lot of questions and a fluttering heartbeat.

Thankfully, before Bard had the chance to feel truly disappointed the door opened again with a familiar face bursting through it. Masego, the dark-skinned refugee leader from New Dale hurried to Bard’s bedside and smiled widely once he looked into Bard’s alert eyes.

“How are you feeling, Bardie?” the man asked, his deep voice betraying a world of relief and happiness.

“I’m fine, just a little unsure of what’s going on. Why is everybody acting so happy to see me?” Bard asked, glancing at Thranduil, who had came in right after Masego. The elf had schooled his features to an almost neutral expression, but Bard couldn’t miss the tell-tale upturn of his lips.

“Because you were flirting with Death for the past week - that’s why!” Masego exclaimed. “You got us all a bit worried, especially when you refused to wake up after the infection cleared.”

Behind Thranduil more visitors started to appear through the opened door. Those were people who Bard did not recognize, amongst them a plump, red-haired lady with a lively face and flashing green eyes, complimented beautifully by her light green dress. She was surrounded by several assistants, all fussing around her like chicks around their mother. There was an aura of authority surrounding the woman and Bard guessed that she was Goditha, the Lady of the Fortress.

“Greetings, Bard!” she greeted him heartily.

While Bard tried to figure out how to respond to a noble lady correctly, the room filled with even more people, some dressed in rich attire, others in uniforms and training gear, some looking like service and working staff. What they all had in common was their strange interest in Bard - all of them trying to take a peak and talking excitedly between each other.

“We were afraid that we lost you for a while.” Goditha continued. “On behalf of everyone here, at the Escapee’s Heaven, I welcome you and I’m glad to see you recovering.”

“Lady Goditha,” Bard nodded his head respectfully, despite the pain of disuse shooting through his muscles. “Thank you for housing me here.”

“On the contrary - thank you for coming despite the perils you have faced.” Goditha shook her head. “Everyone here knows how you opposed Newdalion and brought us evidence of his madness. With the dragon scale you and Lord Thranduil have pried from his grasp, we have secured allies and even more are to come and join us in the fight against this tyrant. Long have the people of New Dale suffered because of his line’s greed and their mistakes - a time has come for a change, and you have brought us hope! As the heir of Girion, we support your claim to the throne of New Dale and we will join you in your campaign to seize your rightful rule.”

Bard gaped at her speechless - utterly shocked by her words.

“Who did this?” he asked under his breath, eyeing Thranduil and Masego suspiciously.

“You did,” the Refugee Leader laughed. “By defying Newdalion and bringing us evidence of his plans to raise a dragon and wage war on all of Earth. People here believe in you, because you fought for what was right - you freed the slaves, saved the Elven King, came to us here where we needed you most. You are the Heir of Girion and people want the rightful line of rulers restored.”

“The troops in this fortress will be yours to command once you recover.” Goditha confirmed. “We will await your council on how to take back New Dale and restore order and freedom in our city. But until then, rest. We will talk more when you regain more of your strength.”

Bard glanced over the gathered faces, all of whom looked at him expectantly and with different degrees of awe. When he saw that no one was laughing and apparently this was no joke, he fell back in the bed and closed his eyes, wishing it all to go away.

…

In the next few weeks Bard was almost grateful of Masego’s constant medical supervision. As a recovering patient he wasn’t allowed to leave the bed much, which allowed him to hide from the curiosity and expectations of everyone in Goditha’s Fortress, or the Escapee’s Heaven, as the Lady called it. The Elven King was a nearly constant presence by his bedside. Most of the time Thranduil could be found quietly reading books borrowed from the library while Bard slept. Other times they would converse for hours about everything - from the smallest to the biggest of topics.

The first thing Bard had wanted to know, once the fuss around him had somewhat subdued and the amount of surprise visitors coming to pay their respects or just check him out had decreased, was what had happened. Thranduil told him he had contracted an infectious disease from the bite of the dog, which had left him bedridden with fever and unconscious for over a week. In that time, Masego had taken over his healing and used all of his craft to avert the sickness, despite the late response, due to the fact it had taken Thranduil almost a full day to deliver Bard to the Fortress.

“I remember you carrying me.” Bard shared.

“I find that hard to believe - you were feverish and spoke nonsense almost the entire time.” Thranduil shook his head.

“Were you worried?” He tested, trying to hide how much the answer concerned him with a carefree smile.

“I would rather not talk about that time. Let’s focus on the current matters.” The Elven King evaded.

Bard also learned that while he had been unconscious, the people of the Escapees Heaven had gotten used to the elf amongst their midst, but not without some difficulty.

“Not just children, even adults would come up to me and ask to see my ears.” Thranduil recollected for Bard with a mixture of outrage and amusement. “And once they had seen them, they wanted to touch them.”

“Oh the gall of those humans!” Bard laughed playing along. “And did you let them?”

Thranduil gave Bard a look, as if he had said something incredibly dumb.

“Why not? Don’t tell me your ears are sensitive or something...” Bard winked teasingly, but when Thranduil only rolled his eyes in exasperation, Bard’s interest spiked.

“Would you let _me_ touch them?” he ventured, just to see Thranduil’s reaction.

The question got the elf very nearly jumping away, a mild blush dusting his pretty features.

“You humans always presume too much!”

...

On another occasion Bard asked about Thranduil’s opinion of Goditha. It turned out that the Elven King had spent enough time with Goditha to form a sort of understanding between them. The case was the same with Masego, who pretty much ran the place alongside the Lady of the Fortress.

“They share the same vision and through their struggles have grown to trust each other.” Thranduil commented. “The Lady has also been very gracious and respectful towards me. She invites me on each of their councils and asks of my opinion on a great number of matters.”

“Is that where you disappear to when you are not here?” Bard asked. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, testing the floor with his feet. His strength was returning and he could remain awake for most of the day, however he still felt tired when he tried to stand or walk.

“Yes, I have spent time with Goditha, and by extension Masego, who is never far from her side. At dinners we sit together at the grand table. She sits at the head, with Masego on her right, while I sit opposite him.”

“I wonder where they would put me.” Bard mused, watching his bare feet resting on the woven rug beneath them.

“There has been talk to place you opposite Goditha at the other head of the table and to move me to your right side.”

Bard looked up curiously. It seemed that Thranduil was serious. For a moment Bard entertained the fantasy of sitting at the high table with Thranduil by his side and a strong thrill run through his entire being. He kind of really liked the idea, even if it scared him to be given such importance.

“This whole King of Dale business is making me nervous.” he said, trying to stifle the silly smile, which threatened to appear on his face at the mental image.

“You would be a fool if it didn’t.”

…

Some days Bard felt unwell, his world spun and it felt like sickness and fever were extending their sticky tendrils towards him again. In those days and nights Masego was by his side, mostly just chattering away and telling tales of his homeland, while forcing horribly smelling concoctions down the youth’s throat. Thranduil usually sat silently nearby as well, watching Bard’s struggles with an unreadable look on his fair face.

Bard often wondered what the Elven King thought of him and his weakness. The way Thranduil became silent and unresponsive was discomforting, however Bard soon understood that whatever was going on in the elf’s head, it was not disgust or aversion. During those terrible nights when Bard’s temperature went up and he sweated in half sleep he often felt Thranduil’s warm hand holding his cold one. It soothed him, feeling as if he had an anchor, someone to hold onto and guide him back to the light.

Thankfully, the worst of his recovery was over no more than two weeks after he first regained consciousness. Another week later and Bard couldn’t be kept in bed anymore. His strength was rapidly returning, as if his body finally remembered how to be healthy again. No one could talk him into taking it slow, not even his elven friend.

There were new clothes left for him in the finely crafted drawers of his chamber, all from the finest quality materials and most fashionable cuts. It seemed that no expense had been spared for the would-be King of New Dale. One early autumn morning, Bard was awake at dawn and could no longer stand being caved into his room, no matter how comfy and familiar it felt by now. Thranduil had gone somewhere, Bard supposed that he had his own chambers, even if he barely ever returned there. The elf seemed fine with just dozing in Bard’s room - sometimes the young man would catch him sitting still with his eyes opened, unseeing and unresponsive to the world. What strange dreams elves had, Bard had never dared to ask, but for once it was good that his friend wasn’t there to stop him from discarding the soft linen bedclothes and changing into outdoor clothes. Bard found a velvet tunic in a deep blue colour, put it on and then fished out a pair of felt trousers, a short cape to stave off the brisky chill of the morning air, and a pair of brand new leather boots.

Feeling as if he was doing something forbidden and exciting, Bard went out exploring the mountain fortress. There were few people outside, the sun had not yet risen and most of the inhabitants of the Escapee’s Heaven were still sleep, with the exception of the kitchen workers and the guards. No one paid much attention to the young man who snuck around the stone-laid corridors, skipping between the shadows of the tall columns and the patches of pale light streaming through the wide windows.

Once outside, Bard went to explore the dewy gardens, passing over layered terraces, down marble steps and around singing fountains. His random tour lead him up and down the levels of the fort, sometimes going in circles and other times passing by passages, which he wanted to rediscover later, but could no longer find once he returned for them.

He ended his walk in the central courtyard, a large landing surrounded by the tallest buildings in the centre of the Fortress. He saw a stone bridge, which lead up and followed it to some steps until he reached the top of the encampment. From the wall he could glimpse the entire valley and the majestic mountain ridges surrounding it. The sun had just risen and was bathing the woods in its fiery light, taking Bard’s breath away. The fresh morning breeze ruffled his hair and picked up his cape, making its edges dance around him as he trembled slightly from the pleasant chill.

The youth continued his walk up and down the different levels of the battalions, hungry for more views. He turned a corner and saw that there was a large waterfall to the west of the Fortress, just off the side of the stone-laid road that lead to the gates. He guessed that there was a path through the woods, since he could see a clearing on the edge of the cliff overlooking the waterfall. There was a gazebo placed there for the admirers of the magnificent view of the roaring waters. Making a mental note to go there later, Bard finally headed back to his rooms.

On the way back there were a lot more people running about, each in a hurry to get to their morning chores. Merchants were opening up their wares and soldiers were marching up and down the courtyard, doing morning drills.

Bard went through the gates of the main building, heading through the vast hall towards the side corridors, which lead to the residential quarters. It was there that he ran into the Lady of the Fortress, who looked as perky and alert in the early morning as she had been in the day he had first seen her.

When Goditha spotted him, her goodly face scrunched in surprise and mild reprimand, but nevertheless, she approached him gracefully and bowed slightly.

“My Lord, Bard.” She greeted, making Bard feel instantly comfortable.

“My Lady, I am no Lord. Bard would be just fine.” He bowed even lower as he spoke, looking at her carefully and hoping that he had not offended her.

“How are you finding the Heaven, Bard?” She asked, making no comment about his request.

“It’s impressive.” Bard said, feeling foolish. He did not know how to address Goditha. He was grateful of everything she had done for him, but felt that she might expect too much from him. “I only saw parts of it, but I am still amazed by the size and capacity of your Fortress.”

Goditha smiled knowingly and then nodded her head towards the courtyard.

“Would you take a walk with me?” She asked. “I’d like to show you around and tell you of our resources.”

Bard was grateful for the offering and accepted, walking beside the Lady of the Fortress as she showed him the different sections of her domain. True to its names, the mountain fort was both a military encampment and a safe heaven for the people who had sought refuge from Newdalion’s harsh persecution. There were barracks, towers, training grounds, weaponries, as well as kitchens, markets, stables, houses, hunting and fishing lodges.

“New people come every day,” Goditha said when they reached the main gate that opened to the road. It surprised Bard to see that it stood wide agape to the forest, as if the Fortress was not afraid of attackers or traitors.

“With our growing numbers, the capacity of the Heaven decreases, and so do our resources.” Goditha continued. “We will not shut our doors on anyone who tries to find refuge here, but by my estimations, our grain will run out by next summer, perhaps even earlier if our numbers continue to multiply.”

“What do you intend to do?” Bard asked, looking at Goditha curiously.

“What everyone here intends - follow our King and retake our homes in New Dale, the sooner the better.” Goditha said.

“I hope you are not referring to me,” Bard winced. “I am just an ordinary person. Surely you can see that.”

The Lady scrutinised him carefully for a long moment. Bard stood opened to her, allowing her to discern him, not knowing what she saw but not really caring to pretend to be anything that he wasn’t. To him, it was for the best if she saw immediately who he truly was, instead of playing along and disappointing everyone later. Having spoken to her for a bit, the young man already felt that she was an understanding and kind person, and hoped that she wouldn’t judge him too harshly for the massive misunderstanding.

However, what she said next was the exact opposite of what he was expecting.

“My father was a wise man.” Goditha began. “He had lots of anecdotes and loved to spread his wisdom on every occasion. When I was your age it used to annoy me, but as I grew older I began to see that he was always right. And do you know what he used to say to me? He used to say - don’t judge people by their attire, or even their speech. Judge them by their friends.”

At Bard’s confused expression, Goditha smiled.

“One look at your friends and I can tell that you are no ordinary bloke. No ordinary human, even. I don’t know another who keeps close company with an elf, least of all their King.”

“Thranduil?!” Bard suddenly understood and was quick to shake his head in denial. “That doesn’t really count - I stumbled upon him and saved his life. He feels indebted to me and follows me around to fulfill what he perceives as his debt. Don’t think your father, my respects to him, ever meant something like that.”

Goditha actually laughed in amusement and disbelief.

“You just stumbled upon him and happened to save his life? You say it as if that was nothing. I think this is exactly what my father meant by his words. You are someone who would risk their life to save another - that tells a lot about your character. And Lord Thranduil told me that you did not know he was the Elven King when you first made attempts to rescue him.”

Bard couldn’t deny that. However it still felt like a weak excuse to be suddenly considered the next King of New Dale.

“Was he also the one who told everyone about my connection to Girion?” He asked tiredly.

“No, that was Masego.” Goditha smirked. “When he arrived along with all the people of the catacombs and the streets of New Dale, he carried news not only of the Dragon egg in Newdalion’s tower, but also the discovery of the blood of Girion, still preserved amongst us. He told everyone of how you freed the slaves and turned yourself in, in order to find a way to save the Elven King.”

“I didn’t exactly turn myself in.” Bard bit his lip. “I don’t know what he told you, but that’s not exactly what happened.”

“I know the full story.” Goditha reassured him. “As do most people, who were involved. However what actually happened matters little. People need a symbol. You could be that - a beacon of hope for them to follow. The people here, they need a hero, a King. That’s what you are to them.”

“And what do you think?” Bard asked. “Truly? Do you believe I am the heir of Girion and that I should be made King?”

“I believe in doing what’s right for the people.” She said, her tone becoming somber. “And right now, I think what’s good for everyone is to believe in you. I will fully support you, if you choose to take up this burden. So will Masego and your friend, the Elven King.”

“That’s a very heavy expectation to fill.” Bard said.

“Indeed it is.” She agreed. “But so far you’ve done nothing but impress.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * mellonamin = my friend 
> 
> For some reason this chapter was a ridiculously hard to write - it fought me at every corner. Thankfully, I’ve written quite a bit of the next few chapters, so I should have an update for you soon :D I’m kind of relieved this is done - now I can happily skip along to reading the fics that I’m following hehe :D Let me know your thoughts - as always, it’s much appreciated to hear from you!


	14. Crossing Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe the fast update? I cannot believe it myself lol :D Enjoy the chapter!
> 
> Thank you, Sky_sky, for the beta and the wonderful suggestions!

Autumn had come and the forest was a fiery sea of yellows, reds and browns crashing against the stone walls of Goditha’s fortress. September rolled into October and the days passed quickly for Bard as if in a dream. The illness that had plagued him at the beginning of his stay was long forgotten, as was his shyness and constant worry of what the next day would bring. The people of the Escapee’s Heaven had embraced him and he spent his times amongst the political enemies of Newdalion, the refugees, the slaves and the citizens of New Dale, who just couldn’t take the corruption of their city anymore. 

Of course, things hadn’t started that way. At first everyone had been both curious and suspicious of Bard. Some questioned his legitimacy, while others were shocked to find that the Heir of Girion was not a nobleman - not in his upbringing, nor his attitude. However, in time even the most cynical soon began to love Bard, whose attitude was kind and down-to-earth, who did not put any special importance in his own person nor did he act as if he had any entitlement to anything. 

The first thing Bard did once he recovered was to join Goditha’s soldiers in the training yards. After his misadventures in New Dale and Oakwood, the young man felt eager to get into shape and learn to be able to hold his own in a fight. The last thing he wanted to be was someone who needed to be rescued. Thankfully, without Gaius’s constant running down and punishments, Bard discovered that training did not have to be full of pain. Instead it could start friendships, fill his body with energy and inspire confidence within him. 

Joining the ranks of the Fortress’ defence won him some favour, but what truly got him the Heaven’s respect and admiration was a little show of skill that happened accidentally. It was in the early days of his training that Bard asked his bow trainer for a harder target practice. Frustrated, the man challenged the would-be-King of New Dale to show his abilities with the bow and arrow before a gathering audience of curious onlookers. When his trainer finally started to throw apples in the sky, there were at least a hundred people gathered to watch Bard pierced them up to three times midair. And since then the Escapees seized to call him with the strained “Heir of Girion” and happily named him “Bowman” since his skill with the bow proved to be outrageously unmatched. 

Wisely, Bard did not rely only on his bow - he learned how to ride a horse and started training with the sword and the shield. And by far, the most difficult weapon to master was the two handed longsword, a subject tutored by the famous swordmaster Flint Valrics - a hero from the Southwest seaside province of Awannest Badweg. Flint was surprisingly young and compact for his renown. He was a full head shorter than Bard and had longish copper hair perpetually tied in a messy bun, a tanned, freckled face and a really short fuse.

At the trials Flint had dubbed Bard hopeless with the long sword, not cutting him any slack for being the future King. The redhead’s sharp tongue had sliced and diced Bard’s lack of natural calling for the sword and had told him to leave the practice and never come back. However, Bard wasn’t so easily swayed. He stayed and kept showing up. With the passing weeks and through Bard’s determination, the young man finally improved enough for Flint to take him under his wing and train him personally. By mid October Bard was one of the Fortress’ most promising swordsman, wielding short swords and a two-handed swords formidably, and possibly Flint’s favourite. 

And so the soldiers grew to love Bard, whom they saw amongst them every day, sweating and training with ceaseless energy and determination, and who always spoke in a simple, friendly, approachable manner. The rest of the people of the Heaven quickly began to adore Bard as well. When he was not training he was amongst them - inquisitive, happy to hear their stories, compassionate and eager to help. He showed them that he was not afraid to get his hands dirty and he didn’t need to be asked for aid twice. Bard helped build wooden houses for the Escapees, whose growing numbers no longer fit into the Fortress’ accommodations. He could be found digging wells and water canals, fortifying the walls, chopping wood and landing a hand with the heavy lifting. He was also more than happy to go hunting in the forest, in order to restock the meat supplies, a venture on which Thranduil often accompanied him.

Sometimes Thranduil and Bard went hunting alone, and moments like those were the ones Bard relished the most. He loved spending time with the Elven King - a pleasure, which had become scarce in his busy days at the Fortress. Once people had learned to rely on him, his attention was constantly required somewhere and he did not spend nearly enough time with his friend anymore. However, whenever he sought out the elf, Thranduil was always happy to put down the papers he was studying, or let him accompany him for a stroll, while the two caught up and discussed current matters. Thranduil was doing his own helping at the Fortress, spending his mornings with Lady Goditha and her council, planning the Alliance’s strategy. 

There was a general consensus that laying low, gathering their forces, training and waiting for the favorable weather of Spring was the best plan of action. It was Thranduil who had proposed the wait, since he felt that the soldiers of Goditha needed more training and that their allied provinces wouldn’t have enough time to mobilise their forces and synchronise their plans of attack if they attempted to go against Newdalion any sooner. He also advised the humans that Winter was not a good time to wage war, especially when planning to besiege a city. 

Messengers ran up and down the Secret Path every day, taking correspondence to leaders of the Alliance across the North, but thanks to Thranduil’s foresight and cunning, a secret trade was also established with the nearest settlements. Soon shipments of goods and supplies started to arrive weekly and just in time to aid the growing numbers of the people in the Escapees Heaven. 

While he was not working on these matters with the Lady, the Elven King was happy to spend time alone in the forest. When he returned, Thranduil often brought back useful herbs or reported the locations of necessary resources, such as ore to Masego, who coordinated the rebuildings, the hunts and the foraging. Many times the Elven King took Bard to the beautiful wild places, which he had discovered, showing the young man singing streams, interesting trees or ancient rocks deep into the woods. 

Sometimes they had to trek for the better part of a day, in order to get to those places. Bard didn’t mind. Once they ventured out of the fortified gates into the woods in the late evening. Darkness fell and Bard had to stumble his way through the night forest for a few hours, guided only by Thranduil’s hand in his. They arrived to their destination just in time to see the reflection of the moonless sky in the mirrorlike waters of a cool woodland lake. The stars above shone brighter than Bard had ever seen them and when Thranduil invited the youth to walk into the water with him and stand still for long enough that the lake could once again return to it’s glassy serenity, Bard saw the entire Silver Way reflected around him, glittering in the dark waters of the pool.

Awestruck, Bard’s heart almost stopped. He looked at the Elven King who smiled knowingly. But Thranduil didn’t know what really made the young man’s heart swell and nearly burst. It wasn’t the allure of the stars, nor the mystery of the cool lake amongst the trees. It wasn’t even the ancient light which seemed to glow in Thranduil’s brilliant eyes. It was the sudden realisation that the feeling Bard felt for the elf was more than fondness and fascination - it was love, and he was certain despite never having felt such a deep emotion before.

After that night Bard felt like he was walking on air - he wasn’t falling, but there was still nothing beneath the soles of his feet. He wasn’t sure if he was about to fly or he was in for a fall. It seemed the choice would be someone else’s to make, and it both scared him and filled him with reckless energy. It was hard to eat, sleep or do anything when his thoughts kept swirling around the blond elf and the confession his heart wanted to make. 

He wanted to let him know. He had to or he was going to go insane. Every time he glimpsed the Elven King, it felt as if his heart might just beat its way out of his chest and crow out to him on its own. The only problem was, he wasn’t certain that Thranduil felt the same.  
...

The sky was a deep azure hanging over the sharp peaks of Oakwood Accent. The Fortress was protected by the Northern wind and inside the valley autumn had been warm and balmy, fragrant with wild flowers, herbs and ripe forest fruit. Thranduil walked out of the Grand Hall, seeking the fresh mountain air outside. He had finished his daily meetings with Goditha and her advisors and had his afternoon free to do as he pleased. Without a certain plan, he idly placed under the shade of the entablature, overlooking the courtyard where the troops trained. 

The sounds of clanging swords, shields bashing, wooden rods crossing and men yelling filled the afternoon air. The air was fresh, carrying the aroma of the forest and the booming sound of the massive waterfall, crashing over sharp mountain boulders in the distance. The Elven King spotted Bard amongst the training soldiers. He stood surrounded by three opponents, each waiting their turn to swing a wooden sword at him. The young human was naturally athletic and learned easily - Thranduil could see major improvement in his technique since the first days at Goditha’s Fortress. Gone was the awkward boy, who didn’t know how to handle his own height and strength - in his place stood a young man on the edge of maturity, a warrior, reaching towards his prime. 

Bard’s trainer shouted instructions and encouragements, which the dark haired youth followed with precision. Thranduil spent a few minutes admiring the battle dance, watching the piercing concentration in Bard’s warm eyes and listening to the sounds of battle accompanying his every move. 

Finally Bard disarmed his last opponent and raised his training sword high in the air, a triumphant smile lighting up his face. He looked happy and carefree in a way that he hadn’t seemed around the Elven King for some time. Something in the young human’s countenance had changed - Thranduil couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it had happened, but he felt as if with each passing day Bard had been drifting away from him. It was almost as if Bard was wary around him. He was choosing his words carefully and controlling his actions and gestures in a way he had never done before. The elf was certain that the young man acted like that only around him, because his old self showed clearly while he thought Thranduil wasn’t looking. 

In truth, Thranduil had no idea what had went awry between them. In his heart he had only grown closer and more fond of Bard during their time in the Fortress. He yearned for their friendship to return to what it used to be and wondered how to fix it. Since watching from afar wasn’t going to change anything, Thranduil separated himself from the shadows and went into the sunny courtyard to join the training men.

The soldiers were congratulating Bard as Thranduil made his way through the training grounds. Bard’s attention immediately snapped on him, as if sensing him, eyes mapping his approach like a wild beast observing another.

“Thranduil.” Bard smiled somewhat strangely, wiping the glittering beads of sweat from his brow. 

It seemed as if his presence was felt so keenly that most of the training men stopped what they were doing and turned to gaze at the Elven King, who had entered their dusty, sweaty mids in robes of flowing navy and silver. Secretly, Thranduil was pleased - being feared and adored in equal measures was something that he was used to. It made him feel more in his place than all the commodities, which Lady Goditha had provided for him, put together.

“I can see that you are improving.” Thranduil said to Bard, not batting an eyelash at the way almost the entire crowd had turned to observe their exchange. “However if you keep letting your guard down like that, you would end up dead, no matter how strong your swing might be.”

“I think my guard is just fine.” Bard frowned, his face comely flushing from exertion.

“Allow me to demonstrate.” Thranduil had to just look at one of the trainees and the young woman scrambled to surrender her wooden sword to the Elven King’s outstretched hand, wooden handle first.

Thranduil tested his grip on the sword, noting it’s inferior balance and heavy weight, assessing how he would handle the weapon. He was used to his custom made dual swords, but he was more than capable of using just about anything as a weapon. The wooden sword was going to do. 

Bard had the audacity to look at Thranduil skeptically.

“I don’t want to mess up your nice clothes.” he said, turning away slightly as he dried his face and neck with a cloth.

“Don’t worry about my attire.” Thranduil said. “I assure you, you won’t be able to even scratch it.”

“Are you sure?” Bard looked up, challenge flaring in his eyes. “You are severely underestimating me then.”

“Shall we see about that?” Thranduil goaded him further, happy that the young man was responding in the way he once would have. He only had to push a little further. “If you manage, I will be in your favour for anything you ask.”

“Anything?” Bard raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Are you saying that I could make the Great Elven King wash floors, for example, if I mess up his beautiful blue robes?”

“ _If_.” Thranduil stressed. 

Bard laughed heartily and threw the cloth to the side.

“You are on!” he declared brightly, spinning his training sword as he circled the elf. 

“Ok, everyone! Move out of the way! Make space!” Bard’s trainer, the Swordmaster Flint piped in. At his command, the other trainees ran out of the way and gathered in a circle around Bard and Thranduil, intrigued to see them spar. 

“Hey, Elven King!” 

Thranduil looked over.

“At least tie your hair up!” Flint said. “What kind of warrior fights with hair falling into his face?!”

“What kind of warrior is incapacitated by a little hair?” Thranduil retorted, watching the compact human, who had his copper hair tied up in a bun, turning a bright red.

In the next instant Bard lunged at him, surprising the Elven King, but failing to catching him off guard. Thranduil countered the attack with an easy parry before swinging his foot around, hooking Bard’s ankle and sending the youth tumbling to the ground. 

“Your exit was too slow.” he said calmly to Bard. 

The young man lifted himself up and shook his head, recovering from the sudden meeting with the ground. Thranduil wondered if Bard actually believed he could touch him. He probably did, given Bard’s unyielding can-do attitude.  


“As soon as you’ve delivered the blow, pull back or strike again! Don’t remain there standing, you are unbalanced when you are attacking!” Bard’s instructor shouted.

The young man dusted himself up, chuckling a little to himself before suddenly he attacked again, this time trying to catch Thranduil’s flank. 

The elf didn’t even bother countering his weapon this time, instead he spun out of the way, using the inertia of his movement to shove Bard’s back, sending the young man stumbling forward.

Bard caught himself before he fell, rolling out of the way and swinging his sword at Thranduil from another angle. The Elven King turned around to parry the blow, his long hair flying around. For a moment Bard’s attention faltered and that was all it took for his sword to fall out of his grasp at their weapons’ next hard clash. 

Bard tried to duck for his fallen blade, but in the next instant the dull edge of Thranduil’s wooden weapon touched his jaw.

“You lost your focus.” Thranduil commented. 

Bard was on his knees, looking at Thranduil with the edge of the elf’s training sword pushing his chin up. There was something in those wide hazel eyes, which Thranduil couldn’t quite place. Was it defeat? Desperation? He wondered if the dare hadn’t been too tempting. It seemed that Bard really wanted to win a favour from Thranduil. Hopefully not to make him wash floors, Thranduil thought. Although there was no telling - perhaps Bard might see such an occupation as educational for the Elven King.

“What were you thinking, Bard?! Did you just fall asleep there?” Flint’s freckled face was as red as a tomato. “Now get your act together and show this elf how it’s done!”

Bard’s eyes glanced from Thranduil’s icy blue ones to his livid trainer for a moment and he couldn’t contain a small laugh.

“Calm down, Flint! Or tie Thranduil’s hair up. He is using it to dazzle me.” Bard joked. 

“Take this seriously.” Thranduil said, but couldn’t suppress a tiny smile.

“If only you were as quick with the sword as you are with the wit.” Flint bemoaned frustratedly.

“Do I get one last try?” Bard asked.

Thranduil nodded. Bard smiled somewhat mischievously and got up, walking towards another part of the courtyard where the cobblestone was covered in dry soil and lots of dust had accumulated. 

The Elven King following him.  


“The deal was to mess up your clothes, right?” Bard asked.

“Indeed.” Thranduil smiled almost condescendingly.

Without even the slightest warning, Bard attacked, but this time he did not raise his sword, neither did he get close enough to be in range of the Elven King’s blade. Instead he run and came to an abrupt stop in the dirt, causing a large cloud of dust to lift and fly at Thranduil. The elf managed to jump out of the way, but not before brown powder coated the edges of his robes.

Thranduil looked down at his soiled clothes in utter shock and disbelief. He had no idea that Bard could fight dirty. Suddenly Bard was on him again, using the moment of distraction to surprise him with a vigorous attack. 

Thranduil barely had time to react, throwing himself to one knee in order to meet the youth’s wooden sword on time. Bard used the momentary advantage to plummer the Elven King’s sword until it flew out of the elf’s shocked grasp. Perhaps the young man thought the fight was decided because he took a moment too long to point the dull edge of his sword at Thranduil’s neck, giving the Elven King an opening to pounce on him and push him to the ground. 

With his superior strength, height and weight it was a matter of moments before Thranduil pinned the struggling youth on his back with one knee pressed to his chest, holding his sword hand down. The elf’s strong fingers made to pry Bard’s sword away, but the young human closed his grip hard, using his other hand to clasp the elf’s long hair and tug mercilessly.

“Urgh!” Thranduil growled, sending Bard a look that was utterly feral. He answered by gripping the young man’s neck, threatening to cut his air supply.

“Surrender!” he commanded between clenched teeth. “I don’t want to hurt you. Let go of the sword!”

“No.” Bard forced out, lurching his entire body to kick Thranduil’s lower back with his knee.

“Ai!” Thranduil shouted, and straddled Bard’s chest to immobilise him, tightening his grip on the youth’s throat. “Surrender!”

“Never!” 

“Enough! You lost, Bard! Surrender!” Bard’s trainer shouted. 

Bard’s narrowed eyes looked from Thranduil’s to Flint and then he let go of his sword and Thranduil’s hair. After a few heavy inhales he giggled breathlessly.

“Ok, you won, but I still get my favour.” he grinned. 

“You fight dirty.” Thranduil said, but the statement held no bite. If anything, it made him appreciate Bard more, seeing that the young man would do anything to get what he wanted. Thranduil felt that heroes, who were too virtuous sometimes were destroyed by their own rigidity. Thankfully that didn’t seem to be the case for Bard.

“As do you.” Bard said.

The Elven King propped himself up to one knee and offered Bard a hand. The youth took it and let the elf pull him up as he rose to his feet. 

…

It hadn’t been a fair fight, that much was obvious to Bard, who had seen Thranduil kill three trained assassins with next to nothing but his bare hands. But the Elven King had held back massively during their little spar. Had Thranduil wanted, he could have punched a few teeth from Bard’s mouth, strangled him nearly to death, or broke his wrist. There were so many ways that he could have made Bard surrender his sword, however all Thranduil had settled for asking.

 _‘I don’t want to hurt you.’_

Bard didn’t have to hear those words to know they were true. However, Thranduil was hurting him, whether he realised it or not, just not in any way that he could control. Bard felt his stomach churn and his heart catch fire at the thought of him. He wanted the Elven King, and it was starting to show. The accusing way Flint was looking at him after the fight said it all. 

With the crowd dissipating and everyone returning to their chores, Bard walked to the weapons rack with the Elven King, who examined the steel swords on the shelves, taking a few in his hands and trying their grips. 

“These blades are crude.” He commented. “I should give you an elven sword. Those human weapons are not good enough for you.”

“I thought you beat me to the ground.” Bard ventured.

“I did. But you show promise.”

“Because I tricked you?” Bard raised an eyebrow.

“Exactly. There are no rules in war. It’s a good that you can be flexible.” Thranduil was smiling even though his attention was not on Bard.  


The Elven King began walking amongst the practicing soldiers and Bard followed him. Only a few of them were still gazing in their direction curiously, most having returned to their training. 

“Do you think you can teach me some of your techniques?” Bard asked, not wishing to part from Thranduil just yet. 

“I doubt I would be a good teacher.”

“You’d be better than Gaius at least.” 

“I think you already have a dedicated tutor.” Thranduil said, stopping to look over Bard’s shoulder at the young Swordmaster, who was already back to training his group. 

“Don’t you have any suggestions for me at least?” Bard almost pleaded.

“Trust your instincts. They seem to serve you well.” Thranduil smirked and proceeded to dust his clothes. 

“You shouldn’t have held back.” Bard said stubbornly. 

“On the contrary. I like you alive and whole.” 

“I like you too. Alive and whole.” Bard bit his lip, wishing the ground would swallow him whole. However, to his surprise, and secret frustration, the obvious slip went right over Thranduil’s head.

“You should get back to your training.” The Elven King turned to leave and Bard sighed resignedly.

“Can I use my favour?” Bard asked almost as an afterthought. “Would you meet me somewhere later?” 

“You don’t have to pull a favour to ask to see me. I believe we are pass such formality.” Thranduil narrowed his eyes. 

“True. Of course.” Bard was running a nervous hand through his hair. “But you are always so busy with important stuff that I never know when to intrude.”

“You are never intruding. And you can attend those meetings, if you wish. Lady Goditha would be glad to see you there, as would I. You should concern yourself more with our strategies.”

Bard nodded noncommitetly. He wanted to spend time with Thranduil, but sitting in boring meetings was not exactly what he had in mind.

“I plan to visit the waterfall this afternoon.” Thranduil continued. “You could find me there by the gazebo.”

“Sounds like a plan. I will see you there.” Bard smiled happily making the elven gesture for goodbye, which Thranduil had taught him. 

Skipping back to his instructor, his mind was reeling with thoughts of meeting Thranduil alone by the waterfall. What was he going to wear? What was he going to say? Should he bring a book he liked, so they had something to discuss? Or perhaps some food to share?

“What was that?” His redhead instructor startled him out of his daydreams. “You fought like a toddler back there.”

“Come on, I won the bet.” Bard tried to brush him off.

“The bet!? You mean your weak excuse to flirt?”

Bard’s jaw dropped in shock and he attempted to quickly right himself under Flint’s close scrutiny.

“That’s not true!”

“I’ve never seen you grin so much as when you were getting your ass handed to you by that elf. You are hopeless, seriously. It’s almost painful to watch.” The redhead commented drily.

“You really got the wrong impression.” Bard tried, praying that the heat in his cheeks was not translating to a tell-tale blush.

“Oh come on! You were gazing at him so lovingly, I’m surprised you remembered to swing your sword at all!” Flint continued his verbal onslaught. 

“Shut up! It’s not true.” Bard shook his head, irritation growing.

“Suit yourself.” His trainer whistled. “But let me just warn you about something.”

“What?” Bard growled, his patience having reached its limit. 

“I’ve been there. Done that. It doesn’t work.” The redhead said.

Bard gulped.

“Done what?”

“What you are doing right now. And I want to tell you - it won’t work.”

“You don’t know a thing about... this.”

“I know enough - you are young and it’s your first love. He’s older, experienced, enticing, and you can’t take your eyes off him. You want his attention. But you’ve got nothing to offer him. The most you can get from this is a pity fuck.”

“You are _wrong_. He cares about me.” Bard frowned deeply at the unpleasant words.

“Oh, he adores you.” Flint laughed in bitter amusement. “Like a child. That’s what you are to him.”

“Don't project your failed romance on me.” Bard gritted his teeth. Perhaps Flint was only doing this, because he wanted to help him, but Bard didn't do giving up. Not without trying at least. 

“Ok, see for yourself.” Flint threw his hands in the air. “Don’t say you haven’t been warned.”

With that his trainer turned away and returned to his group. Bard found that he had no more desire to remain and left the courtyard for the day. He needed to refresh and get ready for the evening, and he was not going to let Flint’s words plague him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a bit shorter than usual, but it felt like a good place to end it. Let me know your thoughts! Thank you again for reading!


	15. Heavy Blows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Sky_sky for beta-ing this chapter!

Bard was stuck with a dilemma. He was browsing the shelves of Goditha’s library, looking for a familiar title to share with Thranduil. There was a lot of choice but nothing seemed to fit the mood, which Bard needed. He stumbled upon one of his early teenage favourites - The Adventures of the Sea-Elf Captain Earendil - but he knew that he'd rather die than admit to the Elven King how much he had loved such a novel. Especially since it painted a terribly exaggerated and somewhat comical picture of elves - the kind that had established itself in the human folklore during the long years of separation from the first born.

As he walked around the vast library, Bard noticed his reflection in a stained glass window. He didn’t recognise himself. The desire to impress the Elven King had won over his usual lack of care for fine clothing. He had chosen the best from his wardrobe - a petroleum green velvet tunic with an asymmetrical gold-lined closing that drew a diagonal line across his chest, directing the attention from his broad shoulders to his trim waist. The dark grey trousers he wore underneath hugged his toned legs snuggly, accentuating the length of his limbs and his height. Despite his best attempts to tame it, his short hair curled around the edges of his ears, making him look a little unruly, but his youthful, tanned face was shaven smoothly and he looked fresh and full of energy. His step held a slight spring of impatience and excitement to it, making the girls, who caught a glimpse of him, stare after him and giggle amongst each other friskily.

Currently, Bard was balancing on the tiptoes of his leather boots, trying hard to reach an old and important looking tome, which seemed promising enough. The large book was difficult to reach, sitting on the topmost shelf, where he could only managed to pry it out with a finger a little at a time. Finally the ancient tome tipped over, the movement upsetting the layers of dust, which had accumulated over many years on that wooden shelf. The dust sparkled in the rays of the golden sunset coming from a large window as Bard pulled out the book. Bard sneezed and knocked it down, sending it sprayed opened to the floor where it tore apart due to its age and the heavy landing. 

Someone was approaching his isle. Bard scrambled to collect the missing pages and segments. He put the tome back together just in time to push it back into it's place. In the next instant, Masego turned the corner and came into view. Bard clasped his hands behind his back and pretended to browse another shelf, blinking the dust from his eyes. The Refugee Leader regarded him with an unimpressed look, bent down and picked up a loose page from the floor.

“How about you help an old man fix a vandalised book?” Masego asked in a tone that would suffer no arguments.

“I'm actually in a bit of a hurry.” Bard smiled ruefully and glanced at the top shelf. The book stood out like a sore thumb - it was upside down.

Feeling embarrassed, Bard pried it out once again, this time carefully catching it and handing it to Masego.

“And what can’t wait?” Masego placed the book underneath his shoulder, starting to walk towards another section of the library.

“I have to meet Thranduil.” Bard admitted, following the elder to a large oaken worktable where Masego placed the book and began sorting through the pages, which had fallen out.

“Why are you here then?” Masego asked.

“Well, I thought I could pick up a book, or something, to bring along.” Bard scratched his head, shrugging, feeling nervous. “Do you think it’s weird… bringing a book, I mean?”

Masego looked at him from underneath his bushy grey eyebrows, a knowing smile on his face.

“No, it’s not.” He said. “But I don’t think you can impress the Elven King with old books. One like this would probably feel very recent to him, compared to the expanse of his memory.”

Bard looked at the ancient tome, which was at least a few hundred years old. The thing had fallen apart with just a touch of the youth’s clumsy hands, and comparing the relic’s age to the Elven King’s life… seemed wrong. Thranduil was nothing like that dusty old thing.

“I know he’s supposed to be very old, but I really don’t feel it. We get along so well, I often feel like he isn’t much older than me.” Bard frowned.

“Thranduil’s age is palpable.” Masego disagreed. “To me he seems as old as the rocks of the mountains around us. He has been in this world through all of its ages. Perhaps you are too young to recognise the tales of his burden.”

Bard's scowl deepened.

“Or maybe around you he is different.” Masego conceded. “I’d wager it’s a bit of both.”

At those words Bard perked up, suddenly interested.

“What do you mean, he is different? Does he act different towards me?” He asked.

“I think we both know he has a soft spot for you.” Masego smiled. “He really cares for you. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Bard looked away, feeling awfully transparent underneath those shrewd grey irises.

“Yes and no.” Bard admitted, peering at the older man's expression. He saw nothing judgemental there, only understanding.

“I like him… a lot.” Bard confessed, taping his fingers on the worktable nervously.

“I know.” Masego laughed, his smile stretching from ear to ear. “And there is nothing wrong with that, Bardie. I am happy for you. I only wish I was your age - with my heart hot, my body strong and my head empty...”

“Empty?! My head isn't empty, and if there is something in your head, it must be way past its expiry date.” Bard teased back, smirking deviously.

“You might be right.” Masego agreed and they both laughed.

"Anyway, if you don't need me, do you mind if I go - I don't want to be late..." Bard said, already turning to leave. 

“Bardie,” Masego called after him, his tone having turned serious. “I don’t know if your Elven King feels the same way. But even if he does, it would never be easy between you.”

“What do you mean?” Bard asked turning back to Masego.

“He is immortal.” The old man reminded him. “The last part of love is always drenched in loss and regret. And in Thranduil’s case it would last forever. You should forgive him if he doesn’t want to make such a sacrifice, even for you.”

Bard grit his teeth. He hadn’t thought about the future. In truth, he could hardly picture anything further than a few months ahead of time. He knew he fancied Thranduil in that moment, but he could hardly begin to imagine what the rest of his life would look like. Least of all deal with the concept of eternity.

“I would forgive him anything.” He said, because that was the truth. No matter how things turned out, he knew he’d love Thranduil, in one way or another.

As the young man turned to leave, Masego stopped him one last time.

“Bard!” the Refugee Leader called. “Take a game of chess. He’d like it more than a book.”

Inspiration suddenly struck the young man and he turned around to flash Masego a dazzling smile.

“Brilliant idea! Thanks!”

With that Bard hurried to find a board, not seeing how the old man shook his head in resignation once the youth ran off.

…

Bard jumped over some stone steps and hurried through the gardens, a game of chess underneath his arm. The sun had hid behind the western horizon and the sky was ablaze with vibrant purple turning into deep blue. The Fortress’ lanterns were already lit, guiding the way to the fortified gate, which opened up to the brisk evening chill over the darkening forest.

He hurried down the Woodland road towards the intersection with the path towards the gazebo by the waterfall, when he saw a garnison of new people arriving. Recruits, refugees and allies came almost daily, however this time a familiar voice caught Bard’s attention.

“Lord Bard!”

The dark-haired youth’s eyes searched the people’s faces and then he saw amongst them a familiar toothy grin. And it belonged to Sammie, the hallboy, who had helped him escape the Palace.

“Sammie!” Bard exclaimed, momentarily forgetting everything in his gladness. He ran towards the group and grabbed the smaller teenager into a bear hug.

“The orks take me, you look… Like a real Lord!” Sammie laughed extricating himself from Bard’s embrace in order to look him up and down disbelievingly.

Bard rolled his eyes at the comment.

“I’m glad that at least I look the part, since you insist on calling me that ridiculous name.” he said.

“And I am happy to see that you made it out in one piece! I was worried, believe it or not....” Sammie’s eyes darted over Bard’s features, noting the way the older teenager seemed to have grown more handsome in their absence. Bard’s countenance had changed since Sammie had last seen him - he had an air of confidence, strength and charisma.

“And what about your friend, the elf?” the former hallboy asked.

“He is alive and well.” Bard said enthusiastically, always in the mood to talk about Thranduil. “We managed to get help along the way and remove his chains. From there we had a bit of a rough journey through the woods, with bounty hunters on our tails. I got mauled by a dog, but I’m fine. You should have seen that fight though - I still can’t believe how he finished off three armed opponents… Actually I was just about to go see him now.”

“Oh, don’t let me keep you!” Sammie laughed knowingly and waved his hand. “I wouldn’t want to stand in the way.”

“What do you mean by that?” Bard narrowed his eyes.

“Well…” Sammie coughed a bit. “You know…”

“No I don’t.” Bard rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. Was he so transparent that everybody knew about his feelings?

“So, there is nothing?” The younger teenager asked suspiciously.

“Nothing. No.” Bard shook his head. Yet. His inner monologue added.

“Then why are you all dressed up?” Sammie gestured towards Bard’s clothing.

“Can’t I pretend to be a real Lord for once?” Bard tried half-heartedly.

“Whatever you say, your Lordship.” Sammie winked, clearly not convinced.

“I need to go, but I’ll catch you later, ok?” Bard said, circling around his too perceptive friend. “I trust that they'll take care of you.”

“Yeah, yeah! I will find you later.” Sammie waved him off. “Good luck, Aragon!” The kid shouted making Bard blush furiously.

…

When he arrived he found the Elven King sitting by the gazebo on the cliff overlooking the booming waterfall. The pavilion was lit by tiny lanterns casting their warm yellow light on their surroundings. Thranduil, who wore a long doe-gray cape, which fell loosely around his shoulders and down his frame, sat on the lush turf by the edge. The gentle breeze played with tiny strands of his brilliant hair while he gazed at the breathtaking view of the cascading waters crashing over sharp rocks in murky depths.

“I want to challenge you to a game.” Bard said, in lieu of greetings, knowing that the elf had sensed his approach long ago.

Thranduil looked up at him with a tinge of surprise.

“Haven’t you challenged me enough today?” he asked, a soft smile blossoming on his lips.

Bard’s heart fluttered and he had to work to keep his tone steady.

“Clearly not.” he said softly, setting down the board. “However, this is a more intellectual pursuit. It’s a game that imitates warfare.”

Thranduil’s dark eyebrows rose in intrigue.

“Show me.”

…

It took some time to explain the rules and to practice a few rounds. But then, sitting on the soft grass by the cliff, with the light of the full moon and the lanterns illuminating the board enough for even Bard to clearly see, they were finally playing their first real game against one another. So far, it seemed that the human held the upper hand.

“Do you like the game?” Bard asked as he moved a black bishop to threaten Thranduil’s white knight.

“It’s entertaining.” Thranduil said, moving a pawn to protect his figure.

“As someone who has lead actual armies, can you say that it truly resembles war?” Bard ventured, moving another pawn to take Thranduil’s.

“If only.” Thranduil said, considering Bard’s move. He could choose between sacrificing his queen or giving Bard a chance to attack his king. “War is not that simple. Nor so sterile.”

Thranduil moved another pawn, blocking Bard’s way to his king. The young man took the white queen and made a triumphant noise at the back of his throat. The elf frowned at the loss.

“Don’t worry, you can make another queen - if you reach my side with a pawn, you can decide if you want it to turn into a rook or a queen.”

Thranduil’s lips pursed tightly and something closed off in his expression.

“Hey, are you ok?” Bard asked, picking up on the change instantly. Softly he cupped Thranduil’s downturned chin, raising his face up to meet the elf’s eyes gently. “It’s just a game.”

Thranduil straightened up, sighing.

“Indeed, it is.” he said.

The game continued until Thranduil lost, mostly because of his lack of experience. When he realised that his king was cornered, the elf frowned at the board, trying to come up with a final escape, meanwhile Bard’s heart beat faster as he saw the opening he had been hoping for all night.

With his heart in his throat he braced himself and said.

“You are beaten.”

Thranduil frowned and tapped on the wooden board with his long fingers, unwilling to believe he had no more moves.

“Don’t worry, there is still a consolation prize.” Bard added.

“What prize?” Thranduil looked up.

“This…” Bard whispered, putting a hand on the grass and leaning forward, but before he could get even half-way Thranduil’s attention was stolen from him.

“I hear something.” Thranduil’s eyes snapped to the forest. Bard froze in place. “Someone’s running this way.”

Bard scowled deeply.

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” He said, grasping for the moment before it slipped away.

“I’m not so certain.”

“Thranduil-” He put his hand over the Elven King’s in an attempt to get the elf’s attention, but Thranduil pulled it out of his grasp and straightened to the regal posture, which he liked to assume around everyone but Bard.

“Someone’s coming.” He said.

Bard resisted the urge to bang his fist against the ground in frustration. Who dared to come running in their direction in that very moment?

From beneath the dark branches of the woods a figure appeared. It was Goditha’s personal messenger stumbling towards them with his face burning bright from exertion.

“Lord Bard… Lord… Thranduil…” The messenger panted. “Please report… urgently… to the Central Hall.”

“Why such a late summon?” The Elven King asked, while Bard glared daggers at the runner.

“Urgh…” The messenger's eyes quickly darted to Bard’s face and then away, as if he couldn’t meet his eyes for long. “Forgive me, but I think it’s best… if my Lords hear the news in person.”

The messenger was shaking, Bard realised. There was something vile and foreboding in this summon, and it gave Bard the chills.

“Tell the Lady that she can expect us right away.” Thranduil answered for him, sending the messenger hurrying back, while they followed just behind.

...

The walk to the Fortress was brisk. They were both silent, each wary of the strange turn of events. Bard’s mood was souring quickly and he didn’t know why. There was something very wrong hanging in the air, the Fotress was unusually quiet as they passed through the normally cheery streets, as if the very stones lay quiet in wait.

When they entered the Central Hall, they found all the residing noblemen and military leaders already congregated there, awaiting their arrival. The men and women were whispering softly, worry written over everyone’s features.

Bard’s eyes sought out Masego, who stood by Nessuna and Harisa, murmuring until he caught sight of Bard. Their gazes turned to him in unison and there was something in them, which made Bard’s pulse beat faster. Everyone had turned to the newcomers and an eerie silence echoed under the tall vaults of the Fortress.

“Lord Bard,” the crowd parted to let Lady Goditha walk towards him. She was wearing a heavy shawl over a soft nightdress, which suggested that she had risen from sleep to attend this sudden meeting. “Thank goodness, you are here.”

“Has something happened?” Bard asked.

“I’m afraid so.” She said with an expression ridden with grief.

“Tell me.” Bard asked, fear gripping his heart and his thoughts running at a thousand miles per hour. What if Newdalion had found out about their location? And his troops were marching to eliminate their little rebellion before they were ready for the blow? What if…

“Esgarothie has been attacked.” A captain, whom Bard did not recognise reported.

Bard’s gasp was audible in the silence of the Central Hall. His vision blurred as fear sank its crooked claws into his soul. Esgarothie - his home town. The town where his family lived…

“Newdalion’s men pillaged the town, murdered civilians and took prisoners.” The Captain continued. “My scouts have confirmed that the purpose of the attack was no other, but to capture Lord Bard’s family.”

Behind him Thranduil took a step towards him, but did not touch him. Bard was motionless, unable to do anything but listen, frozen in horror and disbelief as his entire world seemed to be falling apart right bellow his feet.

“My Lord,” the Captain’s gaze was on the ground, unable to meet Bard’s eyes. “I regret to report that your brother and your two sisters have been taken hostage.”

“And my mother?” Bard demanded breathlessly.

“She died, attempting to protect them. I am very sorry…”

Bard did not hear the rest of it. He didn't cry, not in front of all the people, who looked up to him. But he also didn't remember what was said after, nor how he exited the meeting. 

…

The warm polished wood felt familiar under Bard’s bare soles. The planks creaked as they always did when he walked through their old house.

His Da was sitting on his usual spot by the window overlooking the lake. He was carving a miniature wooden boat.

“Da,” Bard said. “Da, you wouldn’t believe it, but they want me to be the next King of New Dale.”

His father put down his work and looked up at Bard, something unfamiliar twisting his expression.

“You are a fool. Didn't I warn you?! The Newdalions have power and they would not let a self-proclaimed King inherit the title. They would rather kill our entire family than let you become King. Where are your siblings now? Where is your mother?”

The whole house was catching fire and his father along with it. The man rose from his chair, enveloped in flames, which ate away at his skin and his hair, leaving behind darkened bones as he reached towards a cowering Bard, who scrambled to get away.

“This household and your family are your stronghold. Why didn’t you protect them? Why didn’t you protect them!?” His father was grabbing at his face and Bard’s hair caught fire. The burning was unbearable. He tried to fight but he couldn't escape.

“You are not worthy of a crown!”

“Mother!” Bard cried desperately.

“I’m here, son.” Bard’s eyes traced the voice but found only a deep, dark corner. From it, his mother emerged, bleeding from multiple wounds, eyes turned up into her head and her skin blue and clammy.

Bard screamed.

...

He jolted up in his bed, safe in Goditha’s fortress. The sheets were moist and hot, tangled around his legs and body like the tendrils of some sick aquatic creature, dragging him down towards the murky waters of his nightmares. Bard kicked them off with violence, brushing the guilty tears from his heated face.

He could not remain in one place so he dressed in a hurry, emptying the entire cupboard on the floor before he found his old ragged clothes, the ones in which he had arrived, buried at the bottom. He put them on and stormed out of the keep, walking briskly into the chilly night until he found himself in the gardens, surrounded by flowering bushes and whispering fountains.

That’s where Thranduil found him. Bard’s usually proud figure was collapsed on itself upon a stone bench and the young man wept as if his heart had been torn apart.

Carefully, as one would approach a wild animal, Thranduil came closer, making sure to attract the youth’s attention by stepping on a dry branch. Bard’s tearstained eyes snapped up to him immediately. There was pain in them, and anger, and guilt.

“It’s not your fault.” he said.

“It is all my fault…”

Regardless of the hostile looks Bard was shooting him, Thranduil slid on the bench next to him. The youth bristled, clearly not in the mood for company, and turned his face away, wiping tears furiously away.

“Do not blame yourself for things that were not in your control.” Thranduil said, knowing full well how difficult it was to heed such an advice.

“I shouldn’t have abandoned them!” Bard blurted out quickly. “ I shouldn’t have stopped sending them money and writing! I shouldn’t have let them get captured! I should have done something to protect them!”

“Had you sent anything to them, you would have exposed them all the sooner.” Thranduil’s voice was firm, his patience for Bard’s temper nearing its end. “Had you gone to them, you would all have been dead by now. Newdalion knew your birth town and he must have had it monitored ever since we escaped. There was nothing you could have done differently.”

“And what about never getting involved!?” Bard cried. “Had I stayed away from all of this, I wouldn’t have brought this upon...”

His voice died down, as if his mind caught up with his mouth and realised what he was trying to say. As soon as he said it, Bard looked remorseful and looked away.

“Would you really have prefered that?” Thranduil asked carefully, keeping his own voice as neutral as possible.

Bard was silent for a long moment, body turned away from Thranduil, staring over the darkened treetops of the forest, peaking over the walls of the Fortress.

“No.” Bard said. “But I should have done better… I should have found a way. I failed.”

“Once there was a Queen under the green branches of the Woodland realm.” Thranduil’s words surprised even himself. Bard seemed so taken aback by the strange statement that he momentary seized his weeping and turned to look at the Elven King.

Seeing that there was no turning away from what he had began to say, Thranduil continued, past the lump that had settled in his throat.

“She was fair, wise and pure like moonlight reflected in the midnight dew.” He continued, the words coming with difficulty - his late wife was a forbidden topic, one never to be discussed or remembered. However right now, Bard needed to hear this, and so Thranduil continued with a voice as quiet and as dry as the dead trees of winter. “I loved her, more than the tree loves the stream, more than the flower needs sunlight, more than life itself.”

“What happened to her?” Bard asked. 

“I was not able to protect her.” Thranduil said finally, feeling himself hollow, like a dead shell laid open for Bard to see. “I lead her to ruin. She died in Gundabad where I waged war against the evil of Angmar.”

“I am sorry.” Bard said quietly and when Thranduil glanced in his direction, he found a pair of warm, compassionate eyes on him.

“The burden to lead these people has fallen to you.” Thranduil told him. “A King serves his nation, not vice versa. There will be sacrifices, and you will always have to bare the consequences of your actions most dearly. Those who love you will understand that.”

Tears were once again running down Bard’s cheeks, but he did not disagree. Guilt was still bearing down on him like a heavy cloak, bringing his youthful shoulders down.

“I did not know your mother, but I know what it is like to be a parent. And I promise you, in her final moments, she loved you and she was proud.” Thranduil whispered.

In the next instant, the Elven King found himself with an armful of Bard, who threw himself in Thranduil’s embrace and erupted into uncontrollable weeping. Instinctively, Thranduil tried to push him away, taken aback by the physicality of humans, but when Bard clung to him and trembled, Thranduil’s heart rebelled against his mind’s compulsion to keep the youth away and he pulled Bard closer, allowing him to press those teary eyes on his shoulder and cry until his tears ran dry.

“I know what’s on your mind, but you must not allow your thirst for vengeance to control you, if you want to see your siblings alive.” Thranduil’s said into Bard’s hair once the other had finally more or less quieted down.

Bard tilted his head up and looked into the Elven King’s eyes. They were so incredibly close, closer than Thranduil had allowed anyone to get to him for over two millennia. Unwillingly, his heart sped up and he felt torn between the urge to break away and run from this newfound intimacy, or sink further into it, despite not knowing where such a road would lead.

Bard was looking at him for answers.

“Tell me what you suggest!” He half pleaded half demanded. “Tell me what I should do, if not seek revenge?”

“It’s time to turn to your allies. This is warfare and you must treated as such.” Thranduil said.

“This is personal!” Bard's eyes narrowed not, comprehending Thranduil's words.

“It always is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Your comments always make my day, so don't hesitate to share your thoughts with me :D


	16. A King's Choice

The morning found them sleepless, walking through the dewy forests. Thranduil was walking a bit ahead and Bard trailed slowly after, eyes on the fallen leaves at his feet, as if drifting through a dream.

The happenings of the previous night had changed a lot for them. Until that point it had seemed that the events were going in the Escapees' favour with their troops seasoning, supplies growing and allies multiplying. Thranduil’s plan had been simple enough - attack New Dale during Spring when the time was right and they could have the upper hand. However things had changed. Bard’s family was taken and they both could sense that things were about to take a completely different turn, one which could easily lead them to ruin.

Thranduil knew that the day was going to see him making hard decisions. He wished for time to think, but Bard had vehemently refused to be sent away to his bed. The youth, who had been inconsolable through the night was finally calm enough for his eyes to dry and turn grim. However, Thranduil could still sense the youth’s inner struggle, burning slowly but unrelentingly like smouldering embers. So he had allowed Bard to accompany him through the woods as he searched for clarity amidst the trees in the cold grey light of dawn. 

The Elven King wondered if Bard had thought about the fact that he still had an army of elves hiding beneath the dark branches of Eryn Rhun. Had it occurred to Bard that Thranduil had a resource, which he, for all his promise of friendship and alliance, refused to bring forth? Was the young man too deep in grief, or too naive to consider all his options?

 _A lot of things cross my mind,_ Bard had said not long ago on the same subject. Therefore Thranduil assumed that he remembered that detail, but was waiting to see what the Elven King would do. The army of the elves could tip the scales in the Alliance's favour, allowing them to attack New Dale, save Bard's family and win the war. But without that extra help, everyone knew that they still didn't have the resources to win in an open attack against Newdalion. And so Thranduil found himself faced with a dilemma - go against his principles and involve his people into these human's struggle, or leave the Rebellion and Bard to their likely defeat.

Time flew and his bleak thoughts rolled over each other as the rain-filled clouds that tumbled across the gloomy sky overhead. The path took them to a cliff, which overlooked the forested valley in the heart of Oakwood Accent. Below the fierce drop, the forest glistened with dew as the sun peaked over the sharp ridges of the mountain. Soon it was hidden by the clouds and the mountain gale ruffled the treetops like waves upon an ocean. Birds darted in the sky, chirping songs as they chased insects in the cool warming air. From where they stood, they could see the Fortress huddling on itself amongst the multicoloured trees. Thranduil admired the view along with Bard who stood beside him, so close that their shoulders nearly touched.

“I have no idea what to do.” Bard confessed with a sigh before sitting down on the rocks. He swung his feet over the edge of the precipice and cradled his face into his hands. The wind blew his tunic, making the light cloth flutter around his wiry frame.

Thranduil’s heart clenched. For a moment it angered him, how easily he was swayed by this human. He grit his teeth and tried to resist melting when he needed to be firm. He wondered if his only option was to leave. His own kind needed to be his primary concern and he knew that if he choose to stay he was going to willingly allow himself to be dragged into what would be either a spectacular loss or the involvement of his own people into a fight that was not their own.

The problem was, Thranduil didn’t want to leave. On most days Thranduil told himself that he had chosen to remain by Bard’s side, because he saw something of himself in the future king and wanted to guide him along, shape him and turn him into a trusted ally. However as time passed, it was getting harder to lie to himself. Bard held him with something far more delicate than any of that - it was a spiderweb of fascination and affection that had wrapped around the Elven King's fea and he couldn’t turn in any direction without tangling himself further into its velvety trap.

“What do you think is going to happen now?” Bard looked up at the still standing elf. Thranduil’s blue eyes followed his motions but the elf remained frozen like an old tree, hardened by time and unswayed by the harsh wind of the coming storm. The only thing that moved was his hair, flying around him as the wind blew it in this direction and that.

Thranduil tasted ozone in the wind, feeling electricity building in the air. He knew exactly what was going to happen.

“There will be a council today.” Thranduil spoke, tension buzzing at the edges of his smooth voice like the ripples of currents swirling under the surface of a deceivingly calm glade. “They will want to hear your response to Newdalion’s move against you, even though they all know the choice is already laid out for you. You must attempt to rescue your brother and sisters, otherwise the Heir of Girion will be seen as weak, cowardly and unable to defend his own family. No one would follow such a leader, therefore you must do risk everything and act, even if it leads your campaign to ruin.”

“What do you mean by this?!” Bard narrowed his eyes, shooting to is feet and stepping into Thranduil’s personal space. “Of course I will try to save them - there is no other thing I would do, in any circumstance. Don’t tell me that you were thinking something else. Something like this is not up for discussion-”

“Your entire mission hangs on a thread.” Thranduil hissed, grasping the front of Bard’s worn tunic and guiding him away from the edge of the gaping cliff just behind his heels. It was a slow, backwards dance and Bard held him with his eyes just as relentlessly as Thranduil gripped his clothing, the youth's scrutiny unwavering even as their hair flew into their eyes, blown by the wind. Thranduil only let him go once they were a few steps away from the drop. “Newdalion is forcing your hand.”

“Yes. He is.” Bard nodded, hazel eyes sharp like a blade. “But we could still surprise him. We need to find out where he’s keeping my siblings and strike when he doesn’t expect it. He doesn’t know how many we are, who we are. We have a chance!”

“Revealing your forces is exactly what he wants.” Thranduil disagreed.

“There is no other way. You said it yourself.” Bard insisted. His young heart was beating so fast, Thranduil could hear it audibly in the small space between them. It’s rhythm was increasing with every breath. “Thranduil…” The youth breathed.

The Elven King’s eyes snapped to Bard’s. For a moment Thranduil remembered the night before, by the gazebo, when Bard’s heart had beat just as fast and he had looked at him not so differently. Except at present there was also pain, anger and a whole other mix of emotions, which didn’t belong on such a youthful face. Looking at Bard from so close made Thranduil’s heart beat harder with a mixture of trepidation and awe. He could see every minute expression flicker over Bard’s face and could read them as easily as an opened book. Bard wasn't hiding anything. 

It occurred to the Elven King that this time there was no one around to interrupt them. Unwittingly his eyes darted to Bard’s mouth for the briefest of moments before he caught himself and turned away, wary of what might happen next. He retreated a step under the pretense of putting more distance between himself and the edge of the cliff. Bard followed him step for step.

“Your troops are not ready, your allies are not ready, winter is coming - even the weather will be against you.” Thranduil argued back breathlessly, stirring his mind away from those dangerous thoughts. His eyes searched for something to focus on, anything other than Bard.

“Are you thinking of leaving?” Bard asked, startling him. The Elven King’s lips parted in surprise and he whipped around to stare at the young man, who observed him with a strange expression.

“If you act now you will lose.” Thranduil evaded, trying to keep his voice and expression neutral, unnerved by how easily Bard had perceived the conflict in his heart.

“So you do want to leave.” Bard crossed his arms in front of his chest, disappointment practically dripping from his words.

“You think me so callus.” The Elven King glared at the rocks by his feet.

“What is it then?” Bard challenged taking a few bold steps towards him, making it impossible for Thranduil's gaze to avoid him.

“I haven’t decided yet.” The elf shot him an hostile look, feeling cornered. Unsurprisingly a frown of pure displeasure formed on Bard’s face. “I need time to think.” He added a bit more softly.

“So, you really are thinking about it.” Bard concluded nodding his head. He looked angry and more than a little betrayed.

“Bard…” Thranduil reached for him, touching his chin gently in an attempt to lift it up and get the youth to meet his eyes. He wished to deny Bard’s accusations, but he didn’t want to lie. Bard was right - a part of him wanted to run, but that was not all of him and he still needed to decide what he was going to do. In that moment the youth’s insistence was frustrating and unhelpful - Thranduil couldn’t find the words he needed, and he was incapable of making such a big decision on the spot, just because Bard needed to hear his answer immediately. "Look at me." 

The next thing that happened caught him completely off guard. Bard simultaneously looked up and seized Thranduil's forearms in a pair of unprecedented strong hands. The Elven King didn't have time to react in one way or another - before he knew it he was yanked forward and Bard's mouth crashed into his. Bard's smooth lips moved against his, kissing him fervently. The young man's fingers dug into the muscles of his arms and clung to him desperately for one pivotal moment before he tore away and turned his back on the Elven King.

“Don’t act so surprised.” There was accusation in the youth’s eyes when Bard finally shot him a glare over his shoulder. 

Thranduil had to work to steady his expression and breath. His mouth was hanging slack and he was utterly speechless, unable to formulate a single retort. The young man didn’t wait for his reaction, instead he strode resolutely towards the path, which lead to the Fortress. His form disappeared between the trees.

The Elven King didn't follow. Instead he turned to the cliff, unseeing eyes filled with disbelief. His heart fluttered madly and his knees were getting weak. In truth, he didn’t have the right to be _that_ surprised. Still, reconciling the tacit knowledge, which had lingered at the edges of his perception for a while with the very real fact of mere moments ago, did not come easy to him. 

Of course, he had suspected something the night before when Bard had given him that look, and had felt it brewing long before then, but he had brushed the idea aside as an insignificant fancy, a fragment of his imagination. The news of Bard’s family had quickly pushed those concerns to the back of his mind where they should have stayed forever. Not even in his wildest dreams could Thranduil have imagined that Bard might actually have the guts to act upon… whatever that was, a second time.

He sat down on his knees, blinded stare darting over the forest ahead and one hand pressed to his lips, trying to wipe away the memory of warm lips against his own before squeezing it into a fist and punched the rock beneath him.

_“How dare you?!”_

If there was such a thing as a final call, one which he really couldn't ignore, that was it. That was the last sign that he had to leave the human behind and return to his own world. Because he could already see where the road ahead would lead him, the slope was so steep and so slippery that there was no way he wouldn't trip. His only choice was to turn around and run without ever looking back. It was easy to leave - unbound and healed, he could reach Eryn Rhun on foot in less than a few weeks. If he took a horse, he could get there even faster. There was nothing holding him back - he owed nothing more to Bard. His debt was repaid and whatever friendship they had could easily be rendered null after such a frivolous act on Bard’s part.

And yet, trying to tell himself that Bard's kiss had been unwanted was like pretending that the desert did not need the rain. And besides, when had he ever heeded any calls?

…

The quiet, almost timid knock on his door surprised him. Bard reluctantly shifted his empty gaze from the drying bouquet of flowers upon his nightstand, which had been his staring match partner for the better part of the morning.

“Yes?” He called, slowly treading out of his reverie.

“My Lord?” It was Sammie pushing the door ajar. “Are you alright?”

Bard sucked in a breath and attempted to right himself. He knew that he didn't look very presentable with his shoulders slumped and a forlorn expression plastered on his face, so he forced a smile and lifted his eyes to meet his friend’s.

The former hallboy walked into the room warily, looking around with a frown on his face. Bard was suddenly hit with the realisation that his room was in utter mess - the contents of his wardrobe were still lying spilled over the floor, clothes bunched up together into sad piles, much like the state of his chaotic thoughts. Bard hurried to clear up the space, grabbing whatever he could and shoving it into drawers thoughtlessly.

“Everything is alright. I’m fine.” He lied through his teeth.

“You don’t look fine, just saying. But you're allowed to feel like that. I am really sorry about your family, Bard.” Sammies said, giving the older teenager pause.

Bard looked at him and nodded, no longer able to imitate a smile.

“If you'd like to talk about it, I’ll be there for you.” Sammie continued. “But first, you must know that Lord Thranduil sent me to tell you that the Council is about to congregate. It seems that they are only waiting for you.”

“Thranduil sent you?” The pile of clothing in Bard's arms dropped to the floor. “He is here?”

“Yes… Why are you so surprised? He’s always here.” Sammie scratched his head and looked at him suspiciously.

“Did he… How did he seem when he asked you to go get me?” Bard asked apprehensively.

“Just his usual self, I guess…” Sammie said, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Although, since you are asking, he did seem a little bit stranger than usual. He was kind of really formal about it and sort of _tense_? Did something happen between you two?”

Bard looked away and rubbed his eyes with a hand.

“I did something stupid.” He admitted shaking his head ruefully.

“What?” Sammie jumped on the opportunity to interrogate him. “Did you tell him!?”

“I kissed him.” Bard said, hiding his face in his palm as he blushed furiously, feeling incredibly stupid as the memory of that moment of insanity replayed in his head.

“You- what?!” Sammie exclaimed, covering his wide grin with his hands in disbelief. “I can't believe this! ... You know, the fact that you're still alive really says something. He probably likes you!”

“Do you think so?” Bard cringed recalling Thranduil’s shocked expression.

“Definitely! He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to let just about anyone get all handsy with him. He must like you, at least a little bit. I saw him nearly kill a guy for just cat-calling him in New Dale.”

“I don’t know that story.” Bard frowned sceptically.

“He smashed a man’s head against a wall and nearly broke his skull, all the while being chained up like an animal. It was scary... But seriously, now I get why you were so surprised that he’s still here. He did seem kind of angry, but maybe he’s just shy, who could tell - elves are different than us after all…”

“I take your word for it.” Bard sighed, cutting off Sammie’s excited rant. “I really thought that I would never see him again.”

“Why did you risk kissing him if you were so uncertain?” Sammie wondered aloud.

“Because it seemed like he wanted to leave and it made me realise how much it would hurt to see him leave. So, I thought it was best if he found out sooner. Any further down the line and I may not have been able to let him go.”

“Why would he abandon you? Everyone is talking about how he saved you and is always around you. I don’t understand why would you think he’d leave when you need him the most?” Sammie frowned.

“It’s complicated.” Bard sighed thinking of Thranduil’s words back in Oakwood when the Elven King had promised his help, but had emphasised that he did not want his people to be involved in any way. Bard knew that the elves’ help would win them the war, but while Bard felt that he would do anything for Thranduil, it seemed that the elf did not see things the same way.

However, he was glad that Thranduil was still there. It meant that there was still a chance to enlist his help in whatever form it came, in order to save Bard’s family. That was the most important thing - everything else took second place.

…

Outside the storm had just hit and heavy rain was bashing against the stained glass windows of the Fortress. The sky was so dark that candles and lanterns were lit in order to illuminate a large map, which rested on a massive oaken table in the middle of the meetings room. The Council, consisting of Goditha, Masego and their key allies sat around it. Bard sat in his usual position next to the Elven King at the centre of the meeting.

The map in front of them illustrated the North. Each settlement was marked with a flag - some were light green, symbolising Goditha’s alliance, others dark red, standing for Newdalion’s forces. At the moment, it looked like New Dale was encircled by little dots of green, while the city and it’s surroundings stood mostly dark red. However, despite their Rebellion’s numerousness, the power of the city was still greater than all of their troops combined and they needed nothing short of a miracle to go against its fortified walls before Spring.

Decisions were made in exactly the way Thranduil had predicted - Bard declared his intention to save his family and called for action against New Dale. His verdict was met with grim acceptance - everyone recognised the symbolic need to retaliate Newdalion’s blow swiftly.

“I am no military leader,” Goditha sighed when all eyes turned to her for direction.

“Neither am I”, Masego shook his head.

Thranduil felt the weight of the room’s attention shift to him. Eyes were glancing at him with uncertainty. No one dared to stare at him directly or challenge him but everyone knew that if someone had the capacity to lead a group of barely trained humans into an impossible battle and possibly succeed, that was him. However, it wasn’t his fight and he stubbornly refused to get further involved into this human affair.

Thranduil made the mistake to glance to his side and catch Bard’s eyes on him. The contact felt like grazing a burning iron - scorching and intense. Tension had been palpable between them, crackling with static electricity as surely as the rumble of thunder outside. Thranduil narrowed his eyes a fraction, withstanding Bard’s insistent glare.

 _Don’t make me do this!_ Thranduil thought indignantly, but even his most icy stare didn’t dissuade Bard from looking at him as if he expected something.

 _“Turn to your allies.”_ Thranduil’s own words came back to him in sudden realisation. He had condemned himself in a moment of sentimentality and weakness. That was the effect that Bard had developed over him. Just one look and Thranduil felt like he was restrained in chains of his own making. The young man had power over him and Thranduil was allowing him to use it.

He imagined what it could have been like if he had taken his perfect opportunity and left that morning. In that very same moment, he would have been dashing west through Oakwood, heavy raindrops falling between the trees and landing on his soaked robes, sliding down his drenched hair. He would have been cold and he would have felt numb, but there were to be no more compromises made, no more risks taken. Away from the only person who could hurt him, he would have been safe on his own. He would have returned to his own realm, found eternal isolation and security. He would have remained distant and unchanged for as long as it took for the humans to come knocking on his woodland doorstep as, he knew, one day they would. But once they came, he was going to drive them out as many times as it was necessary to keep them away, and his people were going to continue to exist through the long ages of the World as they always had. Nothing was going to change, there were going to be no alliances, no movements through his borders, no new knowledge exchanged between their species. And he was going to remain forever the Elven King, contemplating the never-ending passage of time upon his woodland throne until the World changed and all that was there withered away. 

Thranduil felt bitter sorrow choke him and he blinked the unwanted images away with force. It seemed that his thoughts of the future were often just as bleak and dismal as the thoughts of the past. He found himself once again in a room full of humans. He was dry and he was warm and he was surrounded by people who needed his aid. Most importantly, Bard was by his side, still waiting for him to make a decision.

“I have fought more than one Great War.” Thranduil found himself saying through the tightness in his throat. Multiple eyes lifted to him, the whole council's hopeful attention snapping to his face. “I can lead the main portion of the troops. But we need a better plan.”

With the new announcement the entire room was filled with approving and hopeful deliberations of how the campaign might go under Thranduil's leadership. The spirits were lifted, and even the Elven King felt a strange sense of relief, noticing the tension in Bard’s shoulders ease and seeing the young man next to him smile. However, they needed more than optimism to win the campaign.

“We need to discover where Newdalion keeps the royal family before we make any moves.” Thranduil said. “I need spies.”

“My girls could find and rescue the Royal family.” Brun, the blonde cavalry captain proposed. “We have been trained in various disciplines and no one ever suspects women.”

“My sister and I are worth a whole squad.” Nituna, one of the slave warriors, which Bard had rescued in New Dale, added. “Let us join Brun’s spies and send us in for the rescue - we would lay down our lives to repay repay our debt to you, King of New Dale.”

“I don’t want any lives lain down.” Bard shook his head. “However, if Brun would have you, I’d feel reassured to know that you are a part of the rescue.”

“Newdalion has a few cards up his sleeve.” Thranduil added. “His tower is heavily warded by hostile magic. He likes to keep his valuable prisoners close. I am almost entirely certain that he will keep Bard’s family in the tower or in the Palace’s dungeons.”

“Wouldn’t that be too obvious?” Bard raised an eyebrow, looking at him.

“I think he is trying to lure you to his playing field. And there is no safer nor more advantageous place to keep them then the Palace. Yes, I think he would use the fact that we know that to lure us to his territory where he has all the advantage.”

“So we have to deal with the Witch as well?” Masego piped in.

“You may have to kill her, but she is not as powerful as she likes to think she is.” Thranduil said, his eyes sliding to Bard. For the first time he didn’t see even a flinch on the young man’s face at the mention of killing. Bard’s face was stony with resolve and his cold eyes stared unseeingly straight ahead. “It won’t be too difficult, if you manage to get her out of the Tower. Her influence there is great, but outside of it, she won’t be much harder to kill than an ordinary warrior.”

“In the meantime we should think of how we can get to the tower.” He continued. “With your men untrained and unprepared we have a better chance defending this mountain pass than going against Newdalion’s fortified city, especially with winter approaching. In the best case scenario we will be besieging the city for months and we need to make sure that our troops won't freeze to death outside the city walls”

“We might not have to besiege anything,” Goditha said. “I still have loyal people in New Dale, the fortress could be opened from the inside and rebellion can start on the streets before we even arrive”

“That would cost the lives of many,” Thranduil said. “But having the door open to us would be an advantage.”

“Also I know a hidden route to the castle,” Bard said.

“What route?” Goditha raised an eyebrow.

“Newdalion showed me a passage from the lowest level of the city to the palace dungeons.”

“If I was Newdalion, that would be the first place I’d expect an attack from, knowing that you know about it.” Brun commented.

“Indeed, I doubt he would let it unguarded. Most likely he would set a trap as well.” Goditha agreed with her captain.

“I’m afraid I agree with Lady Goditha,” Thranduil side-eyed Bard. “Unless Newdalion is foolishly self-confident, he would seal the tunnel’s exit in the Palace and set traps to kill you once inside.”

“We don’t have enough troops to lead open combat.” Masego rubbed his temples forlornly. “I think we need to risk the passage. I’d go.”

“Or we need another diversion.” Thranduil disagreed, suddenly hit by inspiration upon remembering his first days in New Dale, when he had staid in the catacombs below the city. “Bard once mentioned that New Dale’s most valuable export are those batteries, which you make in a factory near Oakwood...”

The young man’s eyebrows rose and he nodded. At the same time Masego’s face suddenly lit up with a large grin and Goditha’s cheeks flared when they too caught up with his meaning.

“You are not suggesting that we created the diversion there, are you?” Masego asked.

“I don’t see why not?” Thranduil said. “Newdalion is trying to force our hand. We could do the same to him. How much do you reckon he would lose if that factory went up in flames?”

“Everything!” Goditha clasped her hands excitedly. “He would lose everything - his entire council is based on greed and on the money that factory makes. I know the people who still side with him - they are doing it only because he holds the profit of that factory. Destroy it and he will have nothing but bad reputation and centuries of bloodshed behind him. Everyone would turn against him!”

“And what if he kills my family in his anger?” Bard protested, his hands clenched into fists upon the table. “There is too much risk!”

“He won’t - if we seize the factory we could hold it hostage, exchange it for your family.” Thranduil reassured him.

“We could make it look like a strike -” Goditha proposed. “I have people in the Factory - they could conspire to cause a strike. We could sneak some of our troops inside to help them overpower the wardens. That way Newdalion wouldn’t know that the strike was caused by us. We could use it as bait to lure him out of the city. That way we would have a much better chance of defeating him, especially if we use the Battery Factory as a stronghold. The building is built like a fortress - it would be perfect.”

Bard looked from Goditha to Thranduil. It seemed that the entire council was agreeing with the plan. He looked away with a strained expression on his face. Thranduil could see that he hated the amount of uncertainty and risk to his siblings the plan required.

“We need to move quickly.” Thranduil turned to the gathered council. He stood up and gestured at the large map of the table. “I need the troops ready and mobilized as soon as possible. Everyone who can fight needs to be ready and armed. Send word to all the allies, who couldn’t come today - we need everyone to report their readiness and position.”

“Also send people to the Battery Factory straight away.” He turned to Goditha. “We need this strike to happen before the turn of the moon. Masego, I believe this would be a job for you - you know how to strike a flame in people’s hearts. I need you to go undercover as a worker and infiltrate the Factory.”

Masego nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Find out everything you can about its infrastructure and its weaknesses.” Thranduil continued. “Goditha’s agents will be in touch with you and when the time comes, you will lead the strike from within, letting in our troops under the cover of night and holding the Battery Factory hostage to lure Newdalion out.”

“Sounds good to me.” Masego agreed.

“Brun, you must infiltrate New Dale through Goditha’s secret channels.” Thranduil turned to the cavalry captain. “Find out the location of Bard’s family. Stay in there and wait for the strike on the Battery Factory.”

“Nituna, Harisa, do you still want to join me?” Brun looked at the two warrior sisters.

“Always.” Nituna said and her sister nodded.

“If we are lucky, Newdalion will leave the city and you will have your best chance to rescue Bard’s family while he is away.” Thranduil added. “Sneaking them out of New Dale shouldn’t be a problem, but you must do it before the civil strikes begin, so you will have a very short window of opportunity to make this plan work.”

“I will go as well.” Bard said.

“Your presence might jeopardise the entire plan.” Thranduil frowned, immediately rejecting the idea of Bard heading out to the Palace again.

“I know the city and the Palace.” Bard argued back. “I should lead the group.”

“You will be needed more elsewhere-” Thranduil disapproved.

“Where!? You, Masego and Lady Goditha have everything else covered. I must do this - it's my family we are talking about!”

Brun’s eyes darted from the Elven King to Bard. Thranduil grit his teeth while Bard’s eyes were unrelentingly on her. She nodded warily.

“We will besiege the city once Newdalion has sent a good portion of his men to quell the strike in the Battery Factory.” Goditha’s voice broke the tension in the room. “They cannot fight on two fronts, especially if they have resistance from within the city’s walls. I will send people to New Dale to organise the rebellion. In the resulting chaos we will have a chance to take over the Palace and break Newdalion’s influence.”

“I like the plan, but it seems to me we might be stretching ourselves too thin.” Masego commented. “After all of our forces have been dispatched, I’m not sure who will be left to besiege the city.”

“There won’t be a lot of troops left, but we will have to make due somehow.” Goditha said. “And hope that our allies can gather have more men to come to our aid. We will need every last person fighting on our side.”

…

The council ended in the late afternoon. Much was left still to be decided, planned and discussed, but the major plan was set in motion. The sky was still pouring down over the earth with vengeance when Thranduil and Bard exited the meeting rooms together and headed out through the Central Hall.

“Reconsider your decision.” The Elven King urged as they walked through the large set of doors onto the steps leading to the outdoor courtyard.

The heavy rain splashed over their shoulders and heads and they skipped through the open space, avoiding deep puddles and slippery mud.

“Which part of it?” Bard asked, lifting his cape over his head.

“I don’t agree with your demands to go into New Dale.” Thranduil declared not bothering to shield his face from the rain. “You are not truly necessary there. Goditha has plenty of Palace staff on her side. Even your friend, Sammie, might do a better job at discovering the location of your family.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Bard shot him a look from underneath the cloak.

“I don’t trust you not to be reckless right now.”

Bard laughed bitterly.

“And do you know what I don’t trust -” Bard took him by the elbow and steered him towards the cover of the entablature, which framed the courtyard. Thranduil allowed himself to be dragged between the large, rounded columns, which obscured them not only from the worst of the rain, but also from curious eyes.

“I’m not sure I trust your motivations.” Bard crossed his arms in front of his chest. He pulled back the cloak from his face. The heavy material was already drenched with rainwater and dripping around him.

“What are you implying?” Thranduil narrowed his eyes. His blond hair was sticking to his sides in wet strands, droplets of water rolling down their tangling ends.

“I don’t know if you consider my family’s rescue a priority right now.” Bard clarified. “It seems like winning the war is far more important to you.”

“It's not that way…” Thranduil argued.

“You purposefully ignore the danger they will be in by seizing the factory. You want me to stay behind because you know that it's not safe! If someone has to pay the price, it would be my family!”

“Do you not care about the people here?” Thranduil’s voice was rising in agitation. “The fate of this Rebellion in your hands -”

“And what do you care about any of that?” Bard cut him off. “Why are you still here? What are you hoping to achieve by helping us?”

Thranduil straightened up to his full height, brushing locks of dripping hair out of his face.

“You know my answer.” He replied finally, voice lowering to a murmur. “I want my neighbouring kingdom strengthened. I don’t want Newdalion as my neighbour. I want you to inherit your title. It would benefit my people greatly.”

Bard’s eyes were darting over him, scrutinising him and he didn’t look convinced.

“Is that all there is?”

The memory of Bard’s mouth on his made his eyes flee to the side instinctively. He quickly schooled them to return Bard’s knowing gaze firmly.

“Yes.” Thranduil declared.

“In that case, know that I will not stand by and let you play _your_ power games at the expense of my family.” Bard’s eyes narrowed, his tone turning harsh. “I know there is another way, Thranduil.” He continued, peeling away from the shade of the columns and stepping out into the pouring rain.

“What do you want from me!?” The Elven King followed him, exasperation written over each fine feature of his face. The rain was falling as thick as a curtain. Bard stopped and stood in the middle of the courtyard, regarding Thranduil through the grey veil that formed a wall between them.

“I need a real plan!” Bard threw his arms in the air, ignoring the rivers of water that ran down his drenched body. His short hair was soppy wet and rainwater dripped into his eyes, droplets cascading down his nose and over his lips. Bard blew the moisture away.

“You want me to involve my people!” Thranduil shouted, unable to suppress his frustration any longer. “This isn’t our fight! This isn’t about us! I will not shed elven blood over this!”

“So this is the extend of your friendship?” Bard concluded, voice turning colder. “You would stop at the first mention of something of yours being lost.”

Thranduil recoiled, feeling as if he had been struck. Something clenched in his chest painfully and he turned away.

“Isn’t it enough that I am here?” He asked under his breath.

“I still don’t know why you are here -” Bard hissed. “You made it abundantly clear that you want to leave. If you are going, just do so already!”

It took Thranduil merely two steps to cross the distance between them, grab Bard’s wrist and haul him back to the cover of the entablature. The youth didn’t yelp in protest, but his bared teeth spoke volumes even as shudders, which could have been from the cold or something else, shook his frame.

“I am here because I want to help you, but what you are asking is very dear to me.” Thranduil whispered leaning closer to Bard. “You asked me once to believe that you helped me without an alternative motive - now believe me in return. This choice is not an easy one for me to make. Is it too much to ask you to give me time?”

“Then stop trying to bullshit me with your neighbouring kingdom crap.” Bard breathed, pressing his back against the cool marble behind him and tilting his head up to glare at Thranduil. His pupils were blown wide and his breaths came fast and irregular, fanning over the Elven King's moist lips.

“Time is the one thing I cannot afford to lose right now.” Bard said, voice coming out hoarse.

“I know.” Thranduil said softly. “I will give you my answer by sundown.”

Bard looked away and nodded, a tremor shaking him like a young tree. In that moment Thranduil could see something terribly fragile hiding behind all of the steely resolve in Bard’s eyes. It struck a cord within the Elven King, seeing just how deep the young man felt - how profoundly he cared for his siblings and how fiery his passion burned.

“Bard.” Thranduil stopped him before the youth had the chance to slip away and leave. “If my answer is not what you want…” Thranduil began, feeling the gravity of each word weighing down on him like a mountain over his back. “... What would you do?”

Bard paused to regard him. For a long moment he only stared with a look of bitter sadness and a tight set to his lips. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and devoid of its earlier flame.

“I will forgive you.” Bard said quietly. “And I will try to believe you when you say that there was nothing more you could do, because I’m powerless to believe that there is something other than affection in your heart. Anything else would break me.”

Those words left Thranduil gasping with disbelief. He had not dared to think that Bard’s feelings ran that deep - it was unimaginable that such a terribly young creature could feel so deeply, and yet there it was, a confession that was too heart-wrenchingly clear to ignore or confuse for anything other than what it was.

“But know this -” Bard continued, the softness morphing to grim resolve. “If Sigrid, Bain and Tilda die, so shall I, because I will stop at nothing to protect them. So if you want to see a King crowned in New Dale - if you want to see me again in general - you better make sure your plan, whatever that would be, works. Because nothing in this world can stop me from attempting to rescue them. Not even you.”

With that Bard pulled the cape over his head and skipped into the rain, heading towards the lower grounds of the Fortress without looking back.

Thranduil remained staring after him unseeingly, too wrapped up in his inner thoughts to register anything besides the echoes of Bard’s words ringing in his head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you enjoy this chapter? I realise that you've read 70K to get to this first kiss (*facepalm* sorry about that) so I am wondering if you are happy with it, surprised, disappointed....? Let me know, I really want to hear your thoughts!!!


	17. The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, this chapter just didn't want to be written. I forced myself to keep to my self-imposed deadline and it's 4 am here... so... I hope you like it.

Evening was falling over New Dale. The thunderstorm, which had chased away the crowds from the city streets was blown away by the eastern wind. A patch of deep blue sky briefly appeared overhead as the sun slowly tumbled towards the West.

Up on the highest level of the city, the electrical lamps of Girion’s Palace were being lit and servants hurried up and down the corridors and courtyards, catching up on the duties which they hadn’t been able to complete during the horrible weather of the day.

Amongst the hustle, one man stood petrified on the grand entrance of the Palace, rooted on the stone steps with a mouth gaping opened in disbelief. 

“Where are you going?” Newdalion breathed helplessly. 

The sight infront of his eyes was one he had never thought he would see or permit, and yet there he was, watching Nessamelda waiting for a carriage, which would take her away from New Dale along with all of her twelve apprentices and his dragon’s egg packed amongst her various belongings.

“Oh dearest,” The tall red-haired witch turned her pale face towards him, red lips stretching in a smile that was never truly kind. “You know I’m only doing what needs to be done to ensure that our plans come to fruition.”

“Are you?” Newdalion raised an ashen eyebrow weakly. “How do I know you are not escaping with my treasure, stealing the source of my future power, never to return?”

“I don’t want power.” Nessamelda’s eyes were cold, despite her smile. “You should have understood that by now. You can have dominion over the world all to yourself. What I want is so much more precious than that.”

“And what is that?” The Steward breathed, seeing her slipping away and feeling powerless to stop her.

“I must keep some secrets to myself.” She chuckled and turned to inspect the provisions one last time. 

A convoy of black horse-driven carriages arrived, together with a squad of armed guards. Nessamelda’s apprentices began loading the wrapped dragon’s egg and the shackled dwarf lord onto the main cart. 

“Will you at least tell me where you are going?” Newdalion tried to regain the witch’s attention.

“That I can tell you.” She smirked. “The Iron Mountains. I will pay Lord Nain’s dwarven city a visit.”

Newdalion nodded in reluctant acceptance.

“So you think the dwarves know how to achieve what we haven’t been able to do?” He asked, walking along the armed carriage to stand by the door as she entered and sat down on the cushioned seat near the window.

“I am certain of it.” She said, her pearly teeth revealed between her painted lips by what another man might have mistaken for a smile. “If our little friend hasn’t been lying, then I will have our load unburdened by the end of the year.” 

“You can’t do that without me!” Newdalion disagreed immediately, the thought of the dragon's egg hatching without his presence setting him on edge. “I need to be there when it happens! I must come with you!”

“You have a war to win.” The witch fixed him a level stare from the window. “Make sure you destroy this _rebellion_ before you set your eyes on higher heights. Until that problem has been dealt with, you cannot leave New Dale. Your absence is all that those rebels would need to take over. Even amongst your friends, you have enemies, sweetness. Don’t think some of your closest advisers wouldn’t take the first opportunity to betray you.”

“I won’t let that happen.” Newdalion said firmly. “The right to rule is mine! It’s not some self-proclaimed _heir of Girion’s_ or anyone else’s! I know those who would rather see me denounced - I have eyes and ears everywhere in the Palace. As for that boy… I will make such an example of him and his rebellion that no other will try to oppose me!”

“Make sure you kill his elf friend as well. Slowly.” Nessamelda agreed.

“But of course.” He chuckled. “I would do it myself and I’ll have Bard watch. Or I’d make him choose between the elf and his family. I’d kill them one by one...”

“That’s why I love me so much.” She interrupted him, making him lose his train of thought and gape at her with wide eyes. “But first, move those three brats to the Tower. It’s the best place to capture him when he comes for them.” 

“Let him come with these rebels!” Newdalion leered. “I'll be ready for them and I am certainly looking forward to some entertainment.” 

“I would like to hear all about that.” Nessamelda extended her hand over the window and Newdalion took it and placed a kiss on her delicate wrist. 

“Goodbye.” He breathed and she flashed him one last smile before she gave the command and the convoy departed, leaving the Steward alone on the square below Girion's Palace.  
...

The day was at its end and with it's fainting light seemingly the last warmth of the long summer was leaving the world for the season. A crisp wind had blown the clouds away and in the early evening the Escapees Heaven seemed to be shivering in the creeping gloom. Every rooftop was dripping heavy drops or rainwater and the earth was moist, ridden with deep puddles and muddy ridges. 

Outside the fortified walls the woods seemed to be whispering. A thick evening mist sneaked around their damp trunks and pooled at the skirts of the mountains, which encircled the valley. Inside the Fortress, the people were lighting fires and kindling fireplaces, heaving on heavy layers of furs and leathers against the biting wind and closing off the doors and heavy wooden lids over their windows against the cold. 

Inside the Elven King’s chambers, a copper tub was filling with hot water thanks to some mechanical contraption, which the humans had created. Not bothering to light any candles or lanterns in the slowly darkening room, Thranduil disrobed and stopped the flow. His eyes closed, he let his body sink into the steaming tub, feeling a shiver run over his back at the shock of the temperature difference between the heat and his chilled skin. He let himself rest against the warm metal and dunked his head into the water, rinsing his long blonde hair. His eyes opened slowly, but remained unfocused as he surfaced back up, fingers working through the knots with the practice of centuries. 

His tresses were more tangled than they had been for centuries, and his skin felt raw from the cold and the rough kisses of the elements. He had carelessly allowed the wind and the rain to batter him as they would, his mind and heart too deep into a state of disquiet to care about little discomforts and vanities. 

As the first waves of relaxation began to sooth him, his thoughts turned once again to Bard and the predicament of his heart. He ached to aid Girion’s heir reclaim his title and save his family, but the idea of involving his people into the brawl was one that tasted sourly and made something unwilling twist in his gut. 

It was true that elves could remember events of thousands of years before as clearly as they could recall the day before. But such clear memory often brought sorrow and nostalgia, a longing for things that had long come to pass. That’s why Thranduil preferred to stay focused on the day that he was currently living and grasp at the experiences, which life still had to offer to him. However as the sun was setting ever further and his mind was still not made up, the Elven King turned his thoughts to the past, seeking the wisdom of figures long lost and hoping to find some clarity through the advice that was once given to him.

…

Thranduil remembered the grittiness of the forest where his family had settled during the Second Age. The Greenwood had been wild and untamed, filled with elves that were scarcely cultured and somewhat primitive in their arts and customs. His father had become King amongst them and set out to govern and teach them, brining order into their woodland communities and a sense of unity amongst their separated tribes.

The millennia had passed seamlessly underneath the darkness of the ancient trees. The Prince had rarely seen the opened sky, until he had seized to miss it and had started to see the green canopy of the thickly intertwined branches as his home. That’s why on the eve of the war of the Last Alliance, he had been anxious about leaving the familiarity of the woods, uncertain of what the future was to bring once the elven army marched against Mordor through the opened plains of the world. 

That night, when his father had summoned him, Thranduil had hurried to answer the King's call, descending the stone-carved steps to the underground chambers of the palace where his King currently took respite in the natural hot springs of the caves.

Thranduil found Oropher, King of the Elves, sitting half-submerged into a steaming pool of mineral water. The large natural chamber was lit only by the simplest of copper lanterns, produce of the Silvan elves, who knew not how to make crystals hold light, nor how to trick the light into flooding places that it was never meant to reach. However, despite the simplicity, the warm, fiery glow was comforting and mesmerizing as the rolls of steam filtered through the brightness and shadows created by the flames. It was different from what they had known in Doriath, but it was home nonetheless.

“I would have words with you.” The King said to his only heir. “Tomorrow we march to darkness and danger and I know not when we will speak at length again.”

Thranduil stood on alert by the carved rock edge of the pool. At the time, his pale hair only grazed his upper back and was tied in the functional braided styles of the Silvan elves, a token of his acceptance of their culture and ways. The Prince nodded and knowing his father would not elaborate until he was certain that he had his son’s undivided attention, removed the holster where his twin blades rested against his long legs, stripped the patrol leathers and submerged into the water beside his father. He sat patiently and waited for the ancient elf to begin to speak.

“When you become King,” Oropher started at length, “you must remember that to rule is not only to follow your mind. You must lead with your heart as well.”

Thranduil had heard such lectures before, but it still didn’t sit well with him that his father chose to dispense rulership advise on the eve of a dangerous war. It sounded too much like a preventative measure, like something a king would do if he believed he would soon be substituted. However, he only nodded and subtly studied his father. The King was an elf of impressive stature, although not as tall as his son. He had a slighter, more gentle build than Thranduil, and his golden hair was like sunshine, whereas moonlight seemed to reflect in his son’s tresses. Oropher wore his hair long and unadorned and it's waves submerged in the water around him. However, his sire could cut quite an imposing demeanour for all of his inclination towards laughter and generally pleasant disposition.

“But you must not confuse the rulership of the heart with the egoistic impulses of the self.” Oropher added, looking at his son sternly and his tone turning sharp. Thranduil raised his eyes from the fumes that lazily curled up from the pool to meet his father’s forest green eyes. This was a discourse he had not heard before. 

Lowering his head respectfully, the Prince waited for his King to elaborate.

“Do you understand the meaning of my words?” Oropher asked.

“The heart can cloud the judgement?” Thranduil made a guess.

“You must learn to distinguish between valour, creed and love, and the desires, which often resemble those strongly but are hidden pride, greed and selfishness.” Oropher explained. “The heart can readily produce both good and evil. And by the power that will be bestowed upon you, it can be turned into either a powerful weapon or a dangerous liability. You must reign it, as you reign your Kingdom. Wisely. Otherwise you might be betrayed by your own self.”

“Is there a reason for this warning? Have I done something selfish?” Thranduil asked when he was certain the King had finished his thought.

“Not that I can tell.” Oropher raised an eyebrow.

“Have you made a mistake…” Thranduil’s voice trailed off, knowing that he was being bold.

“I hope that I have been able to avoid that.” Oropher said, his voice lower. “I have always strived not to repeat the mistakes of those before me. It is one of the things I promised myself when I accepted this crown - not to make the mistakes of Thingol. But I want to hear the same from you - promise me that you would be wise enough to recognise that what is the good for your Kingdom is not always what is good for you.”

“I promise, Father.” Thranduil said, but hearing his father speak so made dread amount inside of him. 

“My son," Oropher turned towards him, reaching to take Thranduil's head into his hands and bringing him closer so he could plant a small kiss on the top of his head. "I don't doubt that you would be a worthy successor to my name. In fact, Melian once said to me something that I thought ridiculous at the time, but I can see it happening now...” 

“Adar, surely there is no reason to speak of succession so soon?” Thranduil ventured, worry winning over his curiousity to know what the maia had predicted.

“Nothing short of death would make me resign the throne, ion.” Oropher smiled kindly. “But you must be prepared for everything.”

…

Even after all the millenias, grief still overwhelmed Thranduil while remembering that conversation with his father. Oropher must have known that he would not survive the war.

But another memory sprung from the one before, one from an age so ancient, only a few living elves remembered it.

He recalled the light of the First Age dazzling and hazy like the glow of the first morning rays through a woodland mist. Everything that had happened then had later become the source of legend. In those first years of the Sun, Thranduil had lived in Doriath and had served the the Great King, Thingol. Thingol had been one of the first born elves, brilliant in many ways, but just as Oropher had pointed out, towards the end of his life and rule, his unreasonable urges had lead to the ruin of his kingdom.

Yet not all of his mistakes had seemed dangerous from the start. Thranduil remembered vividly the day that the dwarven masters had arrived in Menegroth, invited by the Great King to incorporate the Silmaril into the necklace Nauglamir. 

In those days hundreds of dwarves had come to Doriath and they had marvelled at the enchanted forest and the stone-carved stronghold before putting their sturdy hands to work. It had been a time of a strange, but wonderful union between their races, one that had yielded many great works and could have been remained in the songs as a time of prosperity, if it hadn’t been for the doom that the cursed Silmaril had brought to their doorstep on Thingol's demand. 

Thranduil had not always hated the dwarves. In fact, he had been so curious of them, that his brothers in arms in the Kings Guard had teased him about a friendship he had formed with one particular dwarf, whose name and face he had later worked to erase from his memory.

...  
“Look, look! Thranduil is going to see the love of his heart!” Brethilion, one of the warriors in Thingol's Kings Guard laughed. 

“And what a fine companion he has chosen!” Another one sing-songed to the amusement of the entire squad, who were busy drowning in the fine vintages, which aged in their King's cellar. “A dwarf that is almost half of his size!” 

Thranduil, the youngest elf in Thingol’s Guard brushed their teasing off with his customary coolness. He was used to being teased for this or for that, due to the fact that he was the newest addition to their squad. He knew they only wanted to get a rise out of him, so he rarely gave them the pleasure of seeing him flustered. 

“Hey, little one,” Cyllesyl, an elleth from their division called to him. It was an ironic nickname they had chosen for him, given that he was the tallest and arguably the most formidable in their group. “Where are you going? Don’t let these fools tease you! Stay and have a drink with us!”

“I’d rather share a drink with the dwarves.” Thranduil growled. 

“Have fun!” Brethilion cried after him. “And make sure to tell us what it feels like to kiss a beard!”

The remark made the entire Kings Guard burst into jolly laughter. 

“And you make sure to tell us what it felt like to marry an ork!” Thranduil answered causing an even louder eruption of drunken glee as he pointedly left the merrymaking. 

“Thranduil will come back with his chin all scraped.” He heard Brethilion giggling in the distance. 

“Maybe other places as well!” Someone added and another wave of giggles burst as he turned a corner.

Despite the jokes, Thranduil did not stop meeting his unlikely friend. He showed the dwarf around the forest and even personally saw to lift… her, yes, it had been a young female dwarf, to climb some of his favorite trees.

“I don’t see what you elves find so fun about this.” She had said in that deep, scraping accent that dwarves had of the common language. 

“You can observe the trees from their own level.” Thranduil explained. “You can see their branches grow, hear the leaves sing…”

“Get an ant to crawl up your trouser leg, maybe get somewhere untoward…” She added.

“Why do your kind need to be so crude?” Thranduil made a grimace. They sat on a branch together, the dwarf holding on to the trunk for dear life, while he comfortably lounged, dangling one leg over the high drop bellow. “You can see the life in the forest. The deer graze below, the birds fly...”

“A bird can nest in your hair…” She interrupted him.

“Maybe a bird can nest in _your beard_.” Thranduil said sharply. “Careful what you will answer to that, because you need my good will to get down. I might just leave you here to become friends with the birds and the insects.”

“You treacherous elf! I knew I should never have trusted you!” She laughed in mock betrayal.

They both had laughed. Looking back at it, Thranduil supposed they had both been children to their races. He remembered studying the dwarven ornaments woven into her short auburn beard. The tiny rubies had glittered when she had spoken and smiled, the silver and gold inlays catching the sunlight becomingly. He did not find her attractive in the way his comrades suggested, but he had began to appreciate the unique aesthetic of her kind. 

A few times he had collected forest flowers and woven them into wreaths to crown her head and adorn her square dwarven shoulders. She had found the gesture puzzling but had laughed and accepted his attention without complaints. She had also repaid him with a gift of her own. One day she had presented him with a pair of twin swords, the first of such weapons he had ever owned. He had quickly discovered that with two swords he was even more deadly than with a bow and soon his comrades had stopped laughing at his strange camaraderie with the dwarf and had instead started to envy him.

The memory of the dwarven blades sparked another, much more painful memory. He remembered the last time he had wielded those weapons. It hadn’t been long after they had been forged and he had returned them straight back to the source - stabbing each one to the hilt in dwarven flesh and leaving them there when the fight between their species erupted. 

He had never allowed himself to wonder what had happened to his friend on that accursed day, for it felt too much like betrayal to worry about the fate of one of the monsters who had slayed his King. Without a doubt, she had perished amongst the rest, and Thranduil was only grateful that they had not crossed paths that day and been forced to fight.

Instead Thranduil remembered how the underground halls of the Menegroth had echoed with the Great King’s screams as he was hacked to death by the dwarven masters, who chopped at him repeatedly with their axes and work tools, their greedy fingers tearing at his flowing silver robes, stained red with his royal blood, pulling him down by the lengths of his starlight hair. Oh how Thingol had fought, roaring like a great elk and dealing fatal blows with his bare hands. He had been like a falling star - glaringly brightly in the last moments of his life, the silmaril burning on his pale neck as he plunged to his death.

That memory was not as clear as the others. It was addled by too many emotions and Thranduil could only remember flashes of what had happened, everything unfolding so quickly and so erratically, illogically and catastrophically that he had not had time to make sense of anything well enough to memorise it. He didn’t remember if he had been screaming or crying, but he supposed that he had done both, as they all had, trying desperately, and in vain, to get to their King on time, but being obstructed by too many dwarves, and having to witness Thingol's fall while they fought their way to him. 

He remembered the massacre that had followed the assassination of the Great King. Like rivers of red blood had flowed down the carved passages of the Menegroth. His people had never managed to clean their stronghold completely by the time the had needed to abandon it. There had been so many bodies, most of them dwarven but too many of them elven, and Thranduil remembered driving his knifes into a wounded dwarf, who had been lying on an arching staircase, with a cry of blind fury and hatred, deaf to pleas for mercy and forgiveness, as the elves finished off whoever was not yet dead in their halls. 

He had drank his fill of violence against dwarves that day, and yet it had not been enough. Vengeance could only do so much to sooth the pain of betrayal and lost. He had joined the party that hunted down those dwarves who had managed to escape. It had been the first time Thranduil had left the borders of Doriath and while he had always wondered what the world looked like beyond the veil of Melian, his vision had been obstructed by anger, as if a red curtain had descended in front of his eyes, blinding him to anything but the maddened pursue of those who had wrecked his home, killed not just his King and many of his friends, but also his mother. Thranduil's mother had been a peaceful gardener, someone who had never wanted to wield a weapon. She had been unarmed, tending to Melian’s gardens when the escaping dwarves had slashed her and left her to bleed out under the trees. 

And Oropher had also been there, at the front of the party, angrier and even more bloodthirsty than his son. His father had been Thingol's adviser, a tactician, someone who had not needed to fight and lacked the training and practice of the rest of the hunting party. Yet, the older elf had thrown himself into the mele like a wild thing, disregarding his own lack of skill and leaving his flank open, unwittingly forcing Thranduil to look after him and protect him. In the end, he had managed to get himself grievously wounded and his son had decided to return him to Doriath, too afraid of losing the only family he had left to pursue dwarves further. 

...

Betrayal still tasted like ash on the Thranduil's tongue. He had understood later that the dwarves had not been solely to blame for the feud between their races - Thingol had invited his own doom by seeking the Silmaril, however that did not make Thranduil's hate of dwarves any lesser. He had vowed to keep them away from his Kingdom even if they were of the line of Gimli, the loyal friend of his son.

The distrust of strangers sparked yet another recollection, again of his father, this time during the war of the Last Alliance when the King of the Elves had called him into his tent to discuss some very important news.

“It’s as I suspected.” The King of Greenwood had said to his son. “The cursed line of Feanor has not yet finished poisoning our world. At least I should hope that this will be the end of it. Lord Celebrimbor is dead and with him dies their legacy. Or so we should hope.”

“The Lord of Eregion is dead?” Thranduil inquired, curiously eyeing the letter in Oropher’s hand.

“His skin now decorates Sauron’s banner.” Oropher gritted out and the Prince felt a cold shiver run up his spine. 

“Do not pity him.” The King decreed. “He wrought this upon himself and upon us all. In this letter his kinsmen Gil Galad says that Celebrimbor had a hand in creating the Enemy’s weapon. He opened his doors to Sauron and allowed him to mingle in the arts of the Elves of Eregion, let the Abhorred in on all of their secrets.”

“How could he have done that?!” Thranduil’s jaw dropped in shock. “He must have been mad!”

“He was hungry for knowledge that was forbidden.” Oropher said calmly. “Or worse. There are mentions in Gil Galad’s letter that Sauron did not come to Eregion as himself, but in the form of a comely and wise maia. Celebrimbor must have been blinded by these appearances, because he outright disregarded the firm advice of his kin." 

Thranduil’s eyes lowered as he thought about the implications of his father's words. 

"That is revolting." The Prince spat with a tiny quiver of disgust.

“Son, sometimes our worst mistakes come veiled in the most desirable disguises.” His father leaned forward in his chair, studying Thranduil's expression. “When your trials come. you might learn not to judge the Lord of Eregion so harshly.”

...

Shamefully another memory arose. This time it was from the Third age, relatively not too long ago in the grand scale of Thranduil’s life.

The battle of the Five Armies was raging, orcs were pillaging Dale. Thranduil walked amongst the snow-covered streets, seeing nothing but corpses - human, ork and elven. So many of his soldiers had fallen, their dark blood mingling with that of the other races. Looking at their lifeless eyes, the Elven King wondered how after millenias of life they had come to such a sudden, eternal silence. Death came so abruptly and so irreversibly to the first born, and it seemed all the more unfair because elves were never meant to die.

Thranduil felt horror at what he had done - calling his army and making his warriors march to their fate. No heirdom was worth what he had sacrificed. No jewellery, no memory was worth that. 

He remembered the words of his father and felt deeply ashamed. He had failed him. He had done something completely selfish and unworthy of a King.

“Recall your party.” He said to Gallion, who was never far behind. The elven horn sounded, calling his forces back.

He was going to cut their losses and retreat. The white gems of Lasgalen would stay forever forgotten under the Mountain. It was the personal sacrifice, which he had to make for the sake of his kin. He only hoped that it wasn’t too late. 

...

Thranduil sat up in the copper tub, the water that earlier had been steaming was tepid. Shame, cold and slimy rolled over him at the memory of the Battle of the Five Armies, despite having later realised that his actions that day had decided the course of the history of Middle Earth and had helped good prevail. At the time it hadn’t looked that way - he had went to war over a handful of jewels, which in the end he had received, but had brought him no solace, only helped him realise that love was indeed forever lost to him.

He wondered if he was about to lose Bard’s love as well by making the choice, which he now believed was the only right one to make in the current situation. It was ironic how what he wanted and what was right seemed to always be on the two opposite sides of the spectrum.

Yet Bard was just a moment in eternity, Thranduil attempted to reassure himself. In a thousand years, perhaps the Elven King was going to look back to that moment and wonder why it had felt so hard to make the obvious choice. How could he ever justify his own weakness for something so fleeting that it was already slipping between his fingers irreversibly?

Bracing himself, the ancient Elven King lifted his body from the tub. Ever his heart was trying to betray him, squeezing painfully in his chest, making him almost dizzy in its revolt against his decision. The answer he was going to give Bard could only wreck irreparable damage between them. 

He told himself that he wouldn’t blame Girion’s successor if he chose to sent him away and never wanted to speak to him again. Thranduil knew that he would have done the same if their roles had been reversed, perhaps he might have even declared Bard an enemy, or at least stopped treating the humans as allies. Bard had every right to hate him once he heard Thranduil’s refusal to involve the elven army in his struggle. 

Their separation was inevitable, the Elven King reminded himself. It had only been a matter of time. He was going to survive. He always did. He only wished that for once, he wouldn't have to.

…

The day’s end found Bard back in his chambers. Someone had organised the mess of his belongings and the young man reasoned that it could have been no other than Sammie. He had to thank the other boy and to remind him that he didn’t have to do those kind of tasks anymore. Or perhaps thanking him was all he had to do - Bard suspected that the former hallboy had done him a favour out of friendship, not duty.

As the last rays of the sun disappeared Bard heard a knock on the door. He got up from his seat on the window embrasure and walked over to the door, expecting only one visitor at that time.

He opened the door and unsurprisingly, it was Thranduil standing on the other side. The Elven King looked fresh from a shower, his hair brushed to perfection, falling softly down his broad shoulders. The robe he wore was different from the one that he had worn earlier and he smelled of something stern yet rousing, like the crispness of evergreen needles in the depths of a dark forest. His presence made everything come sharply into focus and draw in all of Bard’s attention to the current moment, wiping away all other thoughts. The effect was so instantaneous, it stopped the young man’s breath for one tense second before he managed to reign in his reactions and make a step to the side, welcoming the elf into his chambers with quiet words of invitation.

Thranduil glided inside calmly, with the familiarity of someone who had been nearly a constant presence in the young man's premises during the beginning of their stay in the Fortress. His expression was neutral and Bard could hardly begin to guess the news which he had come to deliver. 

“I take it you won’t be dining with the Lady in the grand hall tonight?” The Elven King observed, his eyes on the half-eaten dinner on the tea table.

“No. Not tonight.” Bard shook his head, trying to suppress a tired sigh. “I have a suspicion the mood won’t be much better over dinner than it was through the day. I feel like I’ve had enough of the council’s grim deliberations. Have you eaten yet?”

Bard lead him towards the seats huddled under the window, where he had waited earlier. Under the window embrasure had been one of their favourite places to sit together, as they could at once look out to the continuing works in the Fortress and face each other while conversing.

“No, but I am in no mood for food.” Thranduil said, sitting down and turning his eyes to the window. Night had began to fall outside in earnest and smoke was rising over the stone-set roofs. The forest was shrouded in mist and above it the first pale stars of Autumn were beginning to rise. 

“However, wine would be much appreciated.” Thranduil added and Bard nodded, heading towards the door to find a hall attendant to instruct with bringing them some drinks.

When he turned back to the familiar space of his rooms and saw no one but the Elven King sitting by the window, at once the young man felt the particular brand of strangeness that had settled between them when being alone. While once it had meant nothing to be behind closed doors with only Thranduil as his company, something new and impossible to ignore made his stomach clench with anticipation and yearning when he softly pulled the metal hinges of the door into place.

He made his way to join the elf slowly, and if there was any reluctance in his gate, he was careful to mask it. Thranduil lounged on the narrow bench as if it were a throne and Bard fought hard not to let his eyes linger. He sat down across the Elven King and tried to concentrate on something other than the wrongness of what was between them. Or rather the wrongness of what was absent, as the lack of something that his entire being reached out towards was so loud, it was almost like a silent scream inside his head, urging him to do anything but just sit and try to avert his eyes from Thranduil. 

When the elf didn’t immediately speak, Bard’s eyes darted to him from underneath his dark eyelashes, stealing glimpses of the elegant lines of the Elven King’s face. His gaze traced from the elf’s pale hand, propped against his chin, to the long fingers that rested against his pink lips. Thranduil’s thoughts were somewhere else, icy blue eyes absently examining the dew that collected against the sturdy glass of the window. 

“So, what have you decided?” Bard asked when the silence between them stretched and threatened to reveal the fast rhythm of his heart.

As Bard spoke, Thranduil’s attention returned to him slowly and deliberately. When he turned, half of his face bathed in the warm light of the nearby oil lamps, while the other remained shrouded in the cool blue shadow of the outside.

“You couldn’t wait until the wine arrived, could you?” Thranduil asked, raising an eyebrow in wry amusement. 

“Will I be needing some once I hear your answer?” Bard couldn’t help but smirk, despite the gravity of their situation. 

“Bard.” Thranduil’s expression turned serious and he straightened from his relaxed sprawl against the wall. “I will give you my answer, but I want you to know that I thought about this choice since the moment we heard the news of your town being ravaged. And that it has not been an easy decision for me to make.”

Bard sat up as well, tensing despite having believed that he was prepared to hear any answer the Elven King had come to give. He felt his nails biting the insides of his palms and realised that he was clenching his fists tightly by his sides. He forced them to relax and tried to remain calm despite the sudden anxiety that ate away at his insides. 

“Had I been free to choose as I desire, I would have summoned my army to Newdalion’s doorstep long ago, because I wish for nothing more than to aid you.” Thranduil leaned forward, trying to hold Bard’s eyes, but the youth could no longer look at him. He had a sense that he knew what was coming and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking before Thranduil had finished. 

The Elven King reached over the small space between them and took the young man’s hand into both of his. Bard still couldn’t face him, biting his lower lip and feeling his eyes welling up with tears, which he fought not to spill.

“I cannot involve my people in this fight. Forgive me.” Thranduil said and there was something terribly off about his tone. 

Bard glanced at his ageless eyes, he found them to be anything but cold. Was the Elven King pleading him? It was so wrong and so unbelievable, but at the same time the only possible explanation for the wrecked expression he was seeing on Thranduil's face. Faced with such raw emotion, Bard pulled his hand away and receded into his seat, turning his eyes to stare out the window. He couldn’t bare to look at Thranduil for a moment longer, least he himself broke apart. Nervously his hand moved to worry at his chin as he tried to hide the gritting of his teeth and pretend to be strong. 

“If after this you want me to leave, I would understand. But if you'd let me, I'd stay by your side, and see this through to the end.” Thranduil added and Bard looked at him incredulously. Thranduil’s eyes were intense and their pale irises almost swallowed by the darkness of his pupils. The Elven King was so devastatingly beautiful in his vulnerability that Bard felt like he was drowning, overwhelmed by fear, desperation and all-consuming yearning. 

He had no idea how could Thranduil think that he’d ever reject him - it seemed ludicrous. It made him want to do something stupid, like pull the Elven King by his robes and kiss him until the world finally stopped shifting underneath his uncertain feet, until the other finally comprehended what it was that he meant to Bard. That or outright start crying like a child who was way in over his head.

There was a knock on the door. Thranduil rose before the young man could react and went to receive the wine platter from the maid at the door. Secretly, Bard was glad, he didn’t want to be seen all flustered and teary eyed by the people in the Heaven. It was enough that they had seen him shattered by the news of his home town being attacked. They didn’t need to know how unsettled and anguished he still felt.

Thranduil set the tray on the window sill and sat back into his seat, busying himself with pouring two glasses of wine. He handed one to the young man across from him.

Bard didn’t comment, just took a sip of the rich beverage. He followed the Elven King’s movements with his eyes.

“You don’t need my permission to stay or go.” He said, voice thick with suppressed emotions. His eyes on Thranduil were no longer shy or wary, as he could no longer summon the will to care if he was looking at him a little too hard. “I would never send you away or try to stop you.” 

Thranduil’s eyes on him were wide and he stood so still that Bard could no longer tell if he were breathing or had finally turned to stone. The elf’s stillness reminded him of the way a wild beast freezes at the sight of danger - it was impossible to tell if he was planning to pounce or bolt.

“But won’t you at least tell me your reason for refusing me?” Bard continued, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. He had mostly reigned his expression, and the cool taste of the wine in his mouth helped. The heat it created in his belly was grounding and he was able to blink away the moisture in his eyes.

“If I don’t return my people will select another King.” Thranduil said, something in his posture softening, even if he had scarcely moved a muscle. He still seemed well on edge, but Bard could tell that something in his answer had changed the elf’s mood. “But if I bring the Elves into battle, I would be accountable for each of the lives lost in that fight. I won't make them to die for something that I want but concerns them little.”

“And what is it that you want exactly?” Bard asked keeping his tone soft despite the stirring of emotion in his chest. 

Thranduil holding his breath was not something Bard missed.

“I want to fulfil my promise.” He said so softly, it was almost a whisper.

“Is that all that you want?” Bard breathed, peeling off from the window sill to lean towards him. “I showed you how _I_ feel.”

At that Thranduil turned his entire face away but couldn’t hide the darkening of a blush that coloured the sides of his face and rose all the way up to the tips of his ears. Bard wasn’t a fool, he knew what that meant but he wanted to hear it being confessed to him in return. Masego’s words came back to him, the old man’s warning about how difficult Thranduil’s choice would have to be, even if he felt the same, and the young man fought to control his own breathing, wishing that his heart was not pounding so anxiously.

Finally the Elven King turned his eyes to his with such fierce intensity that Bard felt pinned down by that gaze.

“It’s a fascination. Fondness. Devotion.” Thranduil spoke slowly in a measured manned that suggested that he had chosen each word carefully before letting it fall from his lips. “I feel a lot for you and my feelings could grow, if I let them.” 

Bard's heart was beating so fast, he felt as if it might burst.

“What about love?” He asked.

“Were you not listening?” Thranduil raised an eyebrow.

Now it was Bard’s turn to blush. He could no longer look at Thranduil without trembling and he turned away, trying to steady himself against the sudden excitement, need and fear that flooded him after hearing that strange confession. 

“I still don’t understand.” Bard said, his voice coming out lower than he intended. “But until my siblings get rescued I’d prefer if you explain how we’re going to go about saving them. If your army isn’t coming, then I imagine that you must have some miracle plan for winning this war?”

“In all my years in this world, I’ve never seen anything change as fast as your moods.” Thranduil said slowly. 

“It’s because you’ve never met my sisters.” Bard smiled mirthlessly.

“I will meet them.” Thranduil reassured him, picking up on his sudden fear. 

“You can’t know that.” Bard said through his clenching throat.

“Hopelessness or despair can only impede you.” Thranduil said. “The plan we have so far is good, as long as we stick to it without any reckless, half-baked moves. The distraction at the Batery Factory should draw Newdalion out and then you will have your chance to rescue your family.”

“You don’t object to me going into the Palace anymore?” Bard raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t think I can stop you.” Thranduil sighed, reaching to grasp his wine glass but not making any moves to lift it to his lips. “I can only hope that you realise that it’s not only your life at stake. Brun and her squad, as well as Harissa and Nessuna will follow you and live or die by your command. You have a responsibility to them and to all the people of the Alliance who will fight for you.”

Bard nodded grimly, mirroring the Elven King as the other took a small sip of his wine. 

“I won't throw my life away.” Bard promised. “Not when for the first time in my life I feel like I have so much to live for.”

Thranduil locked eyes with him and the young man knew that the elf had caught on to his meaning. 

They sat together for a while longer, finishing their glasses in silence until Thranduil rose from his seat, signaling his intention to leave for the night. Bard followed suit, walking with his companion to the doorstep, deeply in thought of all the things that had been said and his worries for the days to come. 

He did not expect Thranduil to stop him just as he was about to open the door, placing his hand over Bard’s smaller one and holding it still over the doorknob. The youth looked up and his breath caught in his lungs as his gaze met that of the towering elf. The Elven King studied him carefully for a long moment before raising his other hand to Bard's cheek and gently tilting the youth's face up.

“I might never get another chance to fully look at you.” Thranduil said softly. “Allow me to memorise your features, in case fate separates us soon after this day.”

Bard’s eyes were wide as he admired the elf before him in return. 

“It’s too soon to say goodbye.” Bard tried to smile.

Something in Thranduil’s expression broke and Bard saw an age-old pain in his eyes, one which he could not comprehend, but immediately wished to take away and bury forever. And so he did the only thing that he could think of - gently pushing the taller elf’s back against the solid wood of the door, lifting himself to the tips of his toes, he kissed him. 

This time the Elven King was much less like a figure made of marble, unresponsive and cold as he had been in the morning when Bard had dared to steal his first kiss. This time, Bard could feel the life in Thranduil’s chest, the elf’s ribs moving with an exhalation before he felt himself embraced, the Elven King’s hands so light around him, ghosting over his shoulder and hair, so gingerly that Bard could barely tell they were there if it wasn't for the lingering warmth around him.

The contact of their lips was brief and soft, but when Bard pulled back, he did not flee. He remained intimately close to the Elven King, who was also rooted on the spot, looking directly at him. From this close, Bard could see all the tiny details of Thranduil’s eyes, his dark eyelashes framing their electrifying blue colour, the radiance of the elf’s immaculate skin and the slight flush of his lips. 

Unable to resist, Bard leaned in and kissed him once again. Thranduil’s answering kiss did nothing but encourage him. A low heat stirred in the youth’s belly, despite the ill timing and his mind reminding him that he needed to hold back. His body didn’t have the same qualms - he pressed his lips harder to Thranduil’s and the elf’s fingers slid between the short strands of Bard’s hair, guiding his head to the side, leaning in even closer.

Desire shot through Bard like a flash of lighting and at once he felt himself growing hot and breathless with need. He wanted nothing more than to deepen the kiss and let his hands roam over the Elven King’s body, slide between the layers of his robes and find skin. 

But he really wasn’t certain just how much Thranduil would allow and the last thing he wanted was to unwittingly cross a boundary, so he summoned all his control and finished the kiss, extricating himself from the Elven King’s arms. 

“I think you should go,” Bard said horsely, his throat having turned dry with need. “Unless you want to stay.”

Thranduil’s raised eyebrows said that he found something that Bard said amusing, but also mildly ridiculous. 

“Did you just proposition me?” He asked, sounding a little out of breath. 

Bard didn’t trust his tongue to answer. Hearing Thranduil ask that question fueled the heat in his belly like spilling oil onto flame. He looked up at the Elven King, rolling his lower lip between his teeth in an attempt to stop the flow of increasingly wanton thoughts from entering his head. However, his eyes must have betrayed it all, because Thranduil’s expression quickly changed from slightly amused to utterly stunned.

“Sometimes I forget how different our ways are.” Thranduil said, moving out of Bard’s reach and opening the door for himself. There was doubt and something else that Bard didn’t like creeping into his tone

“Wait! Did I say something wrong?” Bard instantly retreated, giving the elf a little bit more space. He didn’t want his eagerness to ruin the tentative thing that was happening between them. 

“No.” Thranduil said to the door. The frown on his face was too deep in thought for Bard’s liking and he suspected that the elf wasn’t saying the truth, or at least not all of it.

“It’s time to bid you goodnight.” Thranduil evaded further questioning. “We shall see each other in the morning.”

Bard opened his mouth, but had to close it and start over. He had no idea what had disturbed Thranduil so much. 

“Goodnight.” He settled for at last. It seemed to be the right thing to say, because Thranduil smiled to him before he left. 

That smile was so genuine and unguarded that it blew Bard’s doubts and fears away. As soon as the door closed, leaving him alone, Bard’s face split into the widest, silliest grin he could produce, smile reaching from ear to ear. Thranduil had kissed him! He had not run, pushed him away or been angry - instead it seemed that he felt the same. Bard could hardly believe it, it was too much. In a moment of irrational happiness, he clenched his fist in triumph, gave it a kiss and barely contained himself from jumping up and down in his excitement, certain that the elf would hear him even from down the corridor. And he really didn’t want the Elven King to know just how out of his mind he was. 

Licking his lips and sighing, the young man leaned his back against the door for support and turned his sparkling eyes towards the ceiling, silently thanking whatever powers there were.

“Good.” He whispered to himself. “This is going well. Everything is going to be ok.”

He walked back towards the bed and threw himself in it, gripping the sheets and hiding his ridiculous smile into the covers. A part of him felt wrong to be so overjoyed while his siblings were captured and surely suffering, but he decided to draw strength from the excitement and happiness in his heart. As Thranduil had said, despair and fear wouldn’t help. What he needed was strength and in that moment, he felt like he could lift a mountain. 

The young man jumped out of the bed and stormed to the nearby desk, pulling out paper and ink. He had some vague recollections of the Palace and the passages around it. It was time to remember them properly and come up with a plan. 

And so Bard stayed up through the night, plotting the way into the Palace and his group’s moves from there. He couldn’t waste another day, not another hour. And so the dawn found him banging on Brun’s door with a pile of sketches and notes. 

“My Lord…?” The captain rubbed her sleepy blue eyes, peeking at him from behind her door. 

“We need to leave today!” He announced. 

“May I get dressed first?” She asked, baffled but not at all put off by his eagerness for action.

“You are not dressed?” Bard finally focused his eyes on her and noticed that she stood in nothing but a blanket wrapped around her frame. Apologising, he averted his eyes and having realised how childish he sounded, he asked her to gather her warriors and meet him in the council rooms after breakfast.

“We’ll be there right away, sir.” She shook her head. “I’ll also send for Nittuna and Harrisa.”

“Thank you.” He said and hurried down the hall.

Brun peaked after him for a while, noting he seemed wrecked by the restless energy of someone who hadn’t slept, but clear of mind and full of purpose nonetheless. She smiled a little to herself, wondering what this brave and big-hearted boy would be like if he ever got to take up the King’s mantle, and wishing quietly that she’d get to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of picture Legolas taking after Oropher, so my description was meant to suggest a familiar resemblance between the two of them.  
> But yeah, this chapter went places - I literally couldn't control it at some point.
> 
> And omg, let me know what you think!!!!!!!!


	18. In Position

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys, I had two options - post this now with as little editing as possible, or post this god-knows-when, because tomorrow I'm traveling to live in another country. So I decided to go ahead and post this, so I don't keep you waiting. I hope you like this chapter :D

“I don’t know what I was thinking when I joined the girl’s squad, but I probably should have expected something like this.” Flint wined.

The swordmaster’s pained expression was absolutely comical, yet he looked convincing in his ‘peasant woman’ disguise. Shaven and without his usual ginger moustache, his face looked youthful and his tiny stature helped him fit in, much better than the rest of Brun’s team, which consisted of hardened female warriors and Bard. If anyone was shorter than Flint that was the beardless teen Sammie, who had also come along, regardless of Bard’s misgivings of bringing him to the precarious rescue.

“As far as I can remember, you begged me to take you into _the girl squad_.” Brun, Goditha’s Captain and the leader of their mission, growled between clenched teeth.

The team stood huddled together, heads bowed in the pretence of humbled submissiveness, hiding their faces under head-scarves and rural headwear. For anyone who wasn’t looking too hard, the group of twelve female cavalry fighters and Harisa, the younger sister of the two warriors, whom Bard had rescued in New Dale, plus the three disguised males, resembled peasant women crowding together to gossip as they waited by New Dale’s trade gates.

“Don’t despair Lord Flint…” Sammie offered, stepping closer to Bard’s swords instructor. “I mean Fiona, love.”

The redhead straightened his already too broad shoulders in indignation, puffing out his small body to its full capacity.

“There are many positive points in this situation that a can bring manly delight.” Sammie continued in a hushed tone. “Like, we have thirteen women and only three men. That makes roughly four women for each one of us…”

Bard rolled his eyes. The young man had been on edge since they had rode out of the Fortress two days earlier. The closer they got to New Dale the more his anxiety increased, since it was his younger siblings’ lives on the balance. There were so many points in their plan where things could go wrong and passing the gates was merely the first one. So he really couldn’t find the humour in the situation.

Judging by the way Harisa exhaled a long hissing breath beside him, he guessed that the rest of Brun’s warriors were equally not charmed.

“I guess that’s true. Not that Bard wants any.” Flint said, his green eyes locking on the back of the younger man’s head. “That makes about seven for each…”

Bard jerked around and sent him such a glare that the swordmaster fell silent. Only once Flint’s eyes had returned to the cue of people awaiting inspection before being allowed through the gates, Bard turned his attention back to the two guards who were checking papers and letting people through.

One of them was Goditha’s man. With a little luck he’d let them through before the other guard took any notice of their strange group.

A few more merchants were let through and Brun’s squad was up next just after a hunter and his son. The border guards busied themselves with their inspection, checking the hides they had stocked in their small caravan. While one guard spoke to the two men, the other looked up at them searchingly. His eyes met Bard’s before they skidded to Brun, who pulled back her scarf to reveal her lovely, sun-tanned face and braided blonde hair.

Recognition flared in the guard’s face, as well as anxiety, as he looked to his colleague quickly before nodding.

“There’s our guy.” Brun whispered to Bard.

“Oh Supreme God! Here it goes…” Sammie hissed mournfully, setting everyone on edge.

“Oh the Orks take me! Why did you bring this cry-baby along?!” Flint’s drawn out whine followed, making everyone even more jumpy.

“If we’re going to kick someone out for crying, it’s definitely not going to be him.” Bard hissed, shooting another warning look to the red haired man before putting a reassuring hand on the younger teen’s shoulder. Sammie was shivering, but at Bard’s touch the kid seemed to relax.

“Oh, how fast they grow…” Flint narrowed his eyes in challenge. “Was it yesterday that you could barely hold a sword?”

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll kick all of you out and this will truly be the girls’ squad!” Brun stepped in, her patience having run out.

“Without men is always better.” Harisa agreed in her accented Westron.

Before the group could bicker any further the hunters passed and the two guards exchanged words before one of them went inside their cabin to have lunch, while the other one, the one who had recognised them, beckoned their approach.

“What business brings you to New Dale?” The guard’s voice shook as he pretended to look at the faked papers.

“We are house-maids. We clean houses in Level Two.” The Captain responded calmly. The man quickly stamped their documents and motioned for them to pass.

“Good luck, my King!” He whispered as Bard passed by him by.

The young man suppressed the urge to react in some way or another, because they were in the middle of the road and anyone might have been watching. Instead he made his way below the fortified stone arches of the city’s main gate and into New Dale once again.

Once inside, the pandemonium of horse hoofs clunking over cobblestone, people conversing in various dialects and goods moving around, surrounded them from every angle. After spending months in the forest, Bard had almost forgotten how overwhelming the city’s noise could be. His head was spinning and he was glad for Brun, who quickly lead the group into the busy streets, picking her way through the cramped alleyways of the lower town.

After two days of nearly constant riding, Bard was glad that their first stop was going to be an inn. However, when he saw the unsightly building, situated not far from the market square, he quickly questioned his luck. There was a wooden sign hanging above the door. It was aged and so nearly eaten away by time that it was hard to read, but after straining his eyes to discern the markings on it, he read “The Trout and the Rod”. Frowning in displeasure, the teenager followed Brun inside as she opened the greasy old door and led them into the darkened inside.

The windows of the pub were so dirty and smoked by fumes of pipe-weed and burning candles, that the interior was almost too dark to see. When Bard’s eyes adjusted, he recognised that the salon was lit by a few dim lanterns. The stench of old alcohol and sweat floated around like a mist and could not be hidden by the smell of burning wax coming from the thick candles, which illuminated the surfaces of worn-out tables and the place’s ghastly, criminal-looking patrons.

As they entered, the inn’s almost entirely male clientele turned to ogle their female disguises. Deep into their cups and in the dark, Bard supposed that the drunkards couldn’t really tell the men from the women in their group, no matter how hard they stared. So taking a deep breath and trying not to react, Bard walked alongside Brun to the bar where their squad congregated under the watchful attention of a dozen sleezy eyes.

Brun exchanged a few quiet words with the bartender, and the man hurried to the back, leaving them to wait in the smoky room.

“Urgh, I feel raped and no one has even touched me yet.” Flint slid next to Bard and put his hands on the countertop.

Despite his hushed tone, Bard bristled. He looked around to make sure no one had overheard them.

“They haven’t even seen our faces.” Flint added. “It’s disgusting. Is that how women feel all the time?”

“If they saw your face, they’d definitely leave us alone.” Bard snapped.

The redhead huffed out a quiet chuckle.

“Oh, I forgot.” He teased. “You enjoy older men’s attention.”

“I swear, if you don’t shut up…” Bard turned around, but before he could finish the bartender returned with another man, who beckoned to them to follow, and their group swiftly made their way up the narrow staircase and into the rooms above the pub.

If the first floor had been a sorry and desolate place, the inn’s guest rooms were even worse. The stench in the corridor was like a physical thing rummaging through air. The scent of mold, alcohol and decay assaulted their senses and Bard wondered if he’d get used to it in time, or if it’s pungent acidity would never fail to make his head spin.

The man left them in a small room that could barely fit all seventeen of them while standing. It had little more than some old straw mats on the old wooden planks and a tiny air-vent in lieu of a window, but at least the stench wasn’t so bad in there.

“This will be our base until we get into the Palace.” Brun said. Although no one protested outwardly, there was a collective sense of displeasure.

“You can change now and then we can discuss the next bits of the plan.” The blonde added.

It was impossible to find a little space all for himself, so in the end Bard ended up facing the wall with the other two males beside him as they quickly removed the feminine layers and changed them with non-descript travellers' leathers.

“I really wish I could take a peak right now.” Sammie said as he pulled the dress over his head.

“If you want to risk losing your head.” Flint laughed. “These women are as wild as animals.”

Bard quickly and economically stripped and folded the female garments, bending to pull on the close-fitting pants over his long legs.

“I’m not too surprised that Bard here isn’t looking.” Fling added, and this time the young man grabbed the shorter man’s neck and pressed him against the wall, blocking with his larger frame whatever view his instructor could get of the rest of the squad as he brought their faces uncomfortably close together.

“If you have something you want to say to me, say it now!” Bard hissed, squeezing just a bit.

“Guys, please, stop…” Sammie tried to bat Bard’s hands away, but Flint’s razor-sharp smile discouraged his attempts to save him.

“I only think that something closer to home would serve you better.” Flint said.

When Bard narrowed his eyes and did not respond, the redhead added:

“Lusting over elven kings isn’t going to end well for you, just saying.”

“And what business is it of yours?” Bard grit his teeth, trying hard to control his grip on the man’s neck.

“Only looking out for you.”

“Bullshit!” Bard released the man’s neck and punched the wall next to his head.

“Brun’s ready to start.” Sammie intervened once again and Bard turned his back on Flint with one last glare.

Bard didn’t understand what the man had against him since the day he had learned about his attraction to Thranduil. Before that he had felt well-liked by the legendary swordsman, and then suddenly, Flint had began taunting him and would not let up. For a while Bard had assumed that the red-haired man hated him. And then Flint had insisted on coming with Brun’s party, practically begging to be taken along, much like Sammie had done.

Bard hadn’t been comfortable with taking either of them, but in the end he had relented when Brun had offered her consent. So far the decision didn’t prove itself a very good one.

“As planned, we will split into groups.” Brun was sitting cross legged on the floor. Her warriors were either lining up or sitting in a circle around her. Bard joined Harisa, who stood behind their captain, her eyes on the plans.

“You all know where you need to go. Except for those two of course.” Brun’s blue eyes turned to Sammie and Flint.

“Wherever you put me.” Flint sighed, spreading his arms in the air.

“I think I will entrust you both to Bard, since you came because of him.” Brun said.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” Bard glowered at the redhead.

“I didn’t come for him.” Flint shook his head, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I just didn’t want to miss out on the action.”

“Huh.” Brun huffed, looking unimpressed.

In the silence that followed, Bard realised that it was up to him to make a decision. He looked at the sullen-looking swordmaster, who avoided looking in his direction. For a moment he saw something vulnerable in the other man’s veneer. Had Flint wanted action, he would have found more of it in the coup over the Battery Factory with Masego, or charging against Newdalion’s forces with Thranduil.

“Fine. Flint can come with me.” Bard said. “As for Sammie, I’m not sure I want to take him to the Palace again. It’s too dangerous.”

“Are you kidding me?! You couldn’t have dragged me all the way here just to abandon me! I’m coming with you!” The teen protested.

“If we get discovered we’ll be killed. Instantly.” Bard argued.

“I don’t care! We won’t be discovered. Not if I’m there to help you!” Sammie disagreed. “You need me - I know every crook and nanny in that place. You must take me along!”

Bard swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat at the younger teenager’s heated arguments. Sammie’s determination deeply moved him. He didn’t want to put the youth in danger, but to deny him would be to reject that loyalty and love, so he nodded his consent in the end.

“Thank you.” Sammie said.

“No. Thank you. All of you.” Bard’s gaze turned to the entirety of the room. The people around him were risking so much for him, for his family. Receiving such devotion overwhelmed him.

It also reminded him of another wound, one which he had not had the time to fully address in the preceding days of frantic activity. Percy’s betrayal. He had considered the boy his only friend before he had met Thranduil and Sammie. The fact that his mother’s death and his sibling’s abduction had come by his old friend’s hand, hurt more than any blow Newdalion could have dealt him.

…

“We received word from New Dale.” Goditha approached the Elven King. Thranduil stood alone on a balcony overlooking the west court. The ring of mountains surrounding the valley obscured the view of what lay far beyond, but the Lady didn’t need to see in order to know that the elf’s thoughts were turned towards the city.

The noble elf turned to regard the Lady with controlled interest.

“Lord Bard and Brun’s squad have reached the first base.” Goditha said, trying to convey her relief. “From there they will need to take their teams’ positions and wait for our signal. Bard’s team will make an attempt to infiltrate the Palace tomorrow. If all goes well, they will incorporate themselves there as servants in various departments and start the search to locate his sibling’s holding place.”

Thranduil noded. His expression was neutral and his eyes the coldest shade of blue, which the Lady had ever seen.

“And what of Lord Masego’s progress?” The Elven King asked.

“He would shout if he heard you calling him lord.” Goditha laughed thinking of the old man. “He is already in position in the Factory. We are sending more of our forces to join him there each day. A couple of more days and he will be ready to begin the strike.”

A silence settled between them, interuppted only by the wind’s whispers in the trees and the rustling of fallen leaves tumbling over the balcony’s stone-laid ground.

“You worry.” She observed softly. There was no need to specify about whom. They both knew. The way Thranduil's sharp gaze shot up to her only confirmed it.

“He will be alright. He’s tougher and more resilient than he looks.” The Lady added, hoping to comfort him, but Thranduil did not respond.

“I do not doubt that.” He said and pivoted on his heels, turning away from the view. She was now faced with his fine profile. “The time to move the troops in position around the Battery Factory is almost upon us. I still need to choose a General.”

“I can make a few suggestions.” Goditha said, frowning at the sudden change of topic.

Thranduil gestured for them to walk and the two leaders made their way into the main halls of the Fortress.

“There is Captain Hawardson, he’s from the eastern province, Captain Vik, Colonel Rubert…”

“I’ve seen those men train. They are but children on a playground. None of them have been seasoned by real battles.” The Elven King said, leading the way towards the courtyard.

Upon their appearance in the open, several Captains stopped training and stood to attention, following their leaders with their eyes. Thranduil’s gaze bypassed them all and instead focused on a figure separated from the rest.

On her own, Nituna the older of the two warrior sisters trained. The Elven King observed her for a while, her movements precise and wild, wielding a deadly-looking weapon, unlike any Goditha had ever seen. It looked like a deadly whip made of sharpened steel spikes, which ended with a claw-like blade. It looked dangerous to handle, even more so to fight against. The woman mastered it with a deadly grace, spinning the spiked links around her body and stabbing its blade into a training dummy ceaselessly.

Without an indication of his thoughts, the elf started moving in her direction. The Lady followed him warily, reluctant to approach the untamed dance of steel, which they were witnessing.

When Thranduil came almost within range of Nituna’s weapon, the warrior sent its hooked blade straight into the middle of the dummy before turning her whole body to the two leaders and bowing her head. Perspiration was shining on her dark skin and her shoulders were heaving for breath as she waited patiently.

“This weapon is your handiwork.” The Elven King observed to which Nituna nodded affirmatively. “What is it’s name?”

“Ga-zahra. Enemy-slayer.” She responded meeting his icy eyes.

The strange sound of her native tongue was foreign and unsettling to the Lady, even if she tried to suppress any judgement towards the dark-skinned warrior. The Elven King was also silent, scrutinising the woman for a very long time and with such intensity, that Goditha could not fathom how Nituna resisted the urge to look away.

“I have seen such weapons before.” Thranduil spoke solemnly. “Long ago men with dark skin such as yours came from a far-away land called Harad. They carried similar weapons and they sided with our enemy the Dark Lord.”

“Not sided.” Nituna spoke and her body did not reveal anything, but her accent deepened, betraying her agitation. “They were slaves.”

Goditha’s eyes widened. She had no clue what they talked of, although she recalled having read lore, which mentioned an Enemy and a Ring, as well as the battles which had been lead during an age of myths and legends. But surely those were little more than fairytales?

“The Bloodthirsty God, he was called by my people.” Nituna continued in the loaded silence, which had fallen between herself and the elf. “Obedience, war and human sacrifice, he wanted. Our culture, he destroyed. Our customs he left to decay. Long centuries of exile and desolation that followed. Our land could have prospered, our knowledge grown and our civilization could have rivalled that of the North, if the Cursed One had not come. Centuries can not fix, what his war destroyed.”

The Lady’s bewildered gaze moved between them. It occurred to her that this was the most she had ever heard the older sister speak since she had arrived at the Heaven months ago. It was almost shocking to hear her form complex sentences and thoughts when in the time that she had been there, Nituna had rarely spoken more than a few words at a time.

Looking back to Thranduil, Goditha realised that something was happening, something that she could not understand.

“Yet evil is not permanent.” The Elven King said at last and his voice was a fraction warmer than before, not by much, but enough for Goditha to realise just how cold he had been earlier. “At least not in humans. The years wash it away, just like a river washes the stones. Nothing is eternal in your kind. For the first time I can see why that could be a blessing.”

Nituna remained silent.

“I need a General.” Thranduil said suddenly. “Will you be my Second in Command?”

The woman’s dark eyes were overfilled with brightness as they once again turned up to meet the Elven King’s.

“I was commander once. But to a small tribe. Not sure if I am good for this.”

“You have known strive and you have seen darkness.” Thranduil said and there was nothing proud or praising about the sentiment. Instead there was empathy and understanding on his fair face. “You don’t relish battle, yet you are prepared for it. That is already better than any of the overeager whelps I see training on this field today.”

At the final remark Goditha sucked in a breath of indignation, while Nituna sniggered knowingly.

“You are a strong warrior king.” Nituna said and she was smiling widely. “I can see you well and I know what you are. Why need a Commander?”

“Because I am not human.” Thranduil said, crossing his arms in front of his chest, even as a smile tugged at his lips. “My endurance, strength and perception are not the same as your kind. I need someone to mediate between me and your people. Someone who can help me understand what the troops need. Someone who is just as strong, and yet human.”

“Excuse me if I intervene,” Goditha said, feeling her face heat up with a blush. For a while she had felt completely excluded from their conversation, and in all honestly she had prefered it that way, but now she had to speak.

When Thranduil’s gaze shifted to her, the Lady took in a deep breath and prepared for what she needed to say. 

“Lord Thranduil, the culture of the Haradri is as different from the Free People’s as is perhaps your culture to ours.” Goditha said, feeling her insides cringe as Thranduil’s face started to lose all its expressiveness and switched to a neutral mask. “I am only saying this because I know the men - they wouldn’t be happy to have a dark-skinned woman as their General, even if she is human, while you are not…”

“If your men rebel against me already than it would be futile to even attempt to leave the Fortress. I will only lead your troops if they trust my judgement fully.”

Goditha looked from Thranduil to Nituna and back. Her face was red and she knew it. It didn’t look like the Elven King was going to compromise. There wasn’t even a hint of hesitation in him. He was as yielding as a diamond. Not at all, that is.

“Oh gosh.” The Lady sighed. “Alright then. But I will have a lot of influencing and convincing to do...”

“I trust that in this you have a talent.” Thranduil smirked and it wasn’t an unpleasant thing. Instead she detected a warm flicker in his eyes. Was that fondness? It seemed so strange, almost impossible that such a fair and mighty creature, like that noble elf, could feel things like the common people. Yet not that strange, given how they had all seen his devotion to their young leader, Bard.

“Not when you are involved, it seems.” She laughed, feeling relieved.

She just hoped that it was truly a good idea. A part of her still resisted the idea of giving such power to someone from Far Harad.

...

Later that night four of Brun’s warriors went out onto the streets to establish connection with their links inside the city and prepare for the next stages of the plan. Inside the tiny room the rest of the team was body-to-body on the straw-covered floor. Bard lied between Sammie and Flint, their little group pushed at the corner of the room near a wall.

Beside him Sammie snorted rather loudly for a young boy. In an attempt to muffle the noise, Bard put his hands to his ears and turned to the other way, facing Flint who’s back was touching the wall. When he turned, Bard found the other young man’s eyes on him.

They were quite close and try as he might, Bard couldn’t settle comfortably, even as he closed his eyes and tried to forget that he was lying mere inches from the other male. The breath that occasionally fanned over his features didn’t help in the least.

A hand touched his, where his palm was pressing against his ears and Bard’s dark eyes snapped opened. Flint had somehow scooted even closer and to the younger man’s horror, the red-head leaned in and kissed his lips.

Bard bit the inside of his mouth and put a hand Flint’s shoulder to stop his advances. Understanding crashed over him as fast and as loud as lightning as the other man’s strange behavior suddenly made sense.

“No.” He whispered, feeling his face heat up with a blush of embarrassment.

“Why not?” Flint breathed.

“Because I can’t.” Bard closed his eyes.

“Because of him?” There was disbelief in the other man’s voice.

“Yes.”

“He will never answer your feelings.” Flint argued.

“He…” Bard hesitated. Did Thranduil answer his feelings? He had certainly kissed him as if he might, but did he truly mean it in the way Bard did? The young man hadn’t had enough time to think about what had happened mere days ago, in the frantic rush of events that had followed. But as the high had settled down, upon replaying the elf’s words again and again in his mind, he wasn’t certain what it all meant.

“He might.” Bard said at last, and his voice wavered ever so slightly.

“ _Please._ ” Flint whispered and there was something so breakable in the smaller man that it made Bard’s heart clench and it slowed down his reactions, failing to stop the man from pressing himself against him. “Don’t make the mistake of wasting your feelings where they won’t be received. Not when you have… something… right here in front of you. If only, you’d want to take it.”

Bard swallowed hard, feeling Flint’s lips on his, barely touching and not moving, but electrifying all the same. The red-haired man was only a few years older than him, and his frame was smaller, inviting, his face handsome and his sparkling green eyes so tempting in the way they lidded with his thick eyelashes. The swordmaster's strong fingers dug into Bard’s side, holding him close and there was a heat between their bodies, which the youth couldn’t deny.

He tried to think of what he had left behind, of how Thranduil had accepted his kiss, but contrary to the elf’s distant, almost cold reciprocal of his affection, Flint was burning, a quivering mess, desperate for his attention. In the end, Bard didn’t really think when he leaned in and kissed the other man with an open mouth. Their tongues met and slid against each other wetly. Bard’s kisses were sloppy, unpracticed but eager and quickly picking up technique from the more experienced man. Flint didn’t seem to mind Bard’s lack of skill - he seemed too far gone to care, intoxicated with the youth’s kiss, trembling all over.

The wet sounds of their kisses and their hitching breaths suddenly felt too loud for the quiet room. Bard tried to control his exhales, even as his lungs burned for breath. He felt like a drowning men. The heat that had awoken inside his body was burning stronger than he had ever known and soon he was shuddering with desire. He had never gotten that close with anyone before and now that it had started, it was impossible to stop.

Yet the rustling of clothing proved too much for Bard and his hand on Flint’s red curls pulled their mouth apart for a moment.

“We can’t.” He breathed. “We can’t do this here.”

“Come outside then.” Flint laughed breathlessly before rising as quietly as possible despite the trembling urgency in his limbs.

Bard followed and the two young men made their way tiptoeing around the sleeping bodies in the room, with little more than a stir or mumble coming from the sleepers. Bard walked down the narrow corridor, looking for an opened door and when he found each door locked, including the small wash room, he beckoned to Flint to the corner at the end of the dark passageway. It was the middle of the night and the place was quiet. Their group were the inn’s only guests and the chances of anyone else wondering up the stairs so late at night was next to minimal.

When they were alone in the darkness, Bard hesitated. Once again his thoughts reverted to Thranduil and the euphoric feeling he had experienced a few night ago in his embrace. But he also remembered the hesitation, the coolness and the sadness in the elf’s eyes. Thranduil wasn’t certain if he wanted to give Bard his heart, even when he knew he had all of Bard’s. Flint on the other hand was eager, warm, close, accessible and so decisive in the way he pulled the taller youth down to pull him into a kiss. Where Thranduil was indomitable strength, Flint was pliant and supple. It was just so easy to let it happen as the smaller man pressed him to the wall and began unlacing his pants.

From there everything happened very quickly and mindlessly in a rush of swallowed moans and quick breaths. And when it was all done and Bard’s mind began slowly, lazily coming down from the highs of pleasure, cold realisation and a hollowness replaced the heat of moments ago.

Quickly he extricated himself from the other man’s panting embrace. Lacing his pants back up and brushing the stickiness of their mingled seed from his lower stomach he could hardly believe what he had just done. It had happened so fast, he really hadn’t thought anything through and the sudden realisation that he wasn’t even certain if he had really wanted it made his stomach churn. Because he didn’t feel anything for the other man, and yet he had let his needs take over and done something that made him feel filthy and empty inside. But worst of all, he felt like a betrayer - he had let not one, but three people down in a single act of stupidity - Thranduil, Flint and himself.

Gingerly, Bard looked at the other man who leaned against the wall. In the darkness, Bard could barely see him, but the satisfaction and his smile were audible in his slowly calming breaths.

“I shouldn’t have done that.” Bard uttered breathlessly, his face burning with shame.

Flint let out an annoyed huff and rolled his head to the side.

“Is this still about him?” There was anger in his tone.

Bard couldn’t look in his direction. The more he came back to himself, the worse he felt. In the end, he decided to be honest.

“I have feelings for him.” He said. “I wish I hadn’t done this… I’m sorry.”

“Really? It’s fine.” Flint slapped his hands to his sides in frustration. “Continue being an idiot and get your heart broken! Maybe I will still be there when you come around. Maybe.”

Bard grit his teeth to keep himself from saying anything further or making excuses. Truly he could hardly believe he had made his life even more complicated. Flint had feelings for him, that much was obvious. And Bard felt as if he had somehow used him.

Thankfully sleep found him easier than it had in many months before. At least one part of him had calmed down and the sense of satisfaction weighted him down and pulled him into sleeps peaceful embrace in a matter of minutes after he lied back down on his spot in the crammed room.

...

On the next morning he woke up late. The sun was already high in the sky, but the squad had decided to let him sleep, since it was evident to all of them that he hadn’t really gotten much rest since the news of his family's capture had come.

When Bard looked around he found only a few of Brun’s warriors left in the room with him. Most of the women were simply sharpening their weapons or chatting in muffled tones. Flint was not there and neither was Sammie.

A sigh of guilty relief tore itself from Bard’s chest as he slowly got up, his joints cracking from the stiffness of sleeping on the floor as he prepared to head towards the washroom.

“There is breakfast over there, if you are hungry.” The Captain said without glancing up as he moved past her. Despite the absence of most of the squad, the room still felt overcrowded with bodies which Bard had to sidestep on his way to the door.

“In a bit.” Bard said, putting his hand on the knob.

“Well, it’s a relief to know,” Brun looked up from the schemes she had been going through and met Bard’s gaze, “that even the kings amongst men are idiots.”

Bard froze in his place.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“Only that I’m glad that it’s not just the men I’ve encountered so far.” She said. “You are all idiots. And I wouldn’t want to be around when your elf-friend finds out.”

Bard bit his lip, gripping the handle a bit too hard.

“What do you mean?"

"Guess." Brun cocked her head to the side, giving him one of her signature unimpressed looks.

"You won’t tell him, right?” Bard all but pleaded. Thranduil finding out about had not even crossed his mind. And the idea was simply disastrous.

“He won’t hear it from me.” Brun released him from the accusation in her eyes. “But don’t do it again. At least not while you are sharing a room with me and my warriors.”

Bard’s throat tightened. So they all knew. Well, it had been foolish to assume that a group of seasoned fighters wouldn’t notice him making out with someone within an arm’s reach. He only hoped that at least Sammie didn’t know. Bard had no idea what his friend would think of him if he did.

“It was a mistake.” He said.

“I’m glad that you realise that. Now go. You stink.” She said and Bard hurried out the door.

….

Two days after Brun’s squad arrived in New Dale, Bard’s team infiltrated the Palace. Posing as servants and maids, each took up posts, which would allow them to spy and later search for Sigrid, Tilda and Bain.

Bard and Sammie were currently sitting together in a small storage room adjunct to the Kitchen, peeling potatoes and sighing forlornly at the sight of the large pile of remaining sacks of vegetables that awaited their attention.

“Can you tell me why everyone has made it their business what I do in my personal life?” Bard huffed.

Before they had split from the rest of the group, Harisa, who posed as a maid, had stopped Bard and dragged him to a corner. Then she had given him a piece of her mind regarding his transgressions with Flint the other night.

At that point Bard had stopped being surprised by people knowing of his attraction to Thranduil and started to get annoyed by the way everyone insisted on mingling in his personal affairs.

“I guess it’s because you are going to be our King.” Sammie looked up from his less than enthusiastic work.

“Does that make my life public property?” Bard bristled putting down his peeling knife.

“No, of course not.” Sammie said. “But it’s also because of King Thranduil.”

At the mention of the elf’s name Bard blanched in mortification.

“Mostly everyone likes the idea the two of you getting together. I mean, he is a King, same as you will be. There is nothing more fitting than that.” Sammie shrugged.

Bard’s jaw dropped.

“You can’t be serious.” He exclaimed. “Why does everyone assume... “

Bard’s voice trailed off as he thought hard. Had there been any time that someone had seen him doing something incriminating with Thranduil? He had no idea how word might have spread, when he himself hadn’t been sure and Thranduil hadn’t even known until less than two week before.

“Are people seriously already thinking of marrying me off to him?” He asked instead.

“Well... “ Sammie shrugged. “It would make sense.”

“I can’t believe this.” Bard ran a hand through his messy hair.

“He’d make a beautiful queen.” Sammie winked.

“I wish.” Bard chuckled despite himself. He had some trouble imagining Thranduil as his _Queen_. The image was so far from reality that it was ridiculous.

“Hey…” Sammie began hesitantly. “I heard about what happened with Flint.”

Bard held his breath. He had hoped that his friend wouldn’t find out. No such luck - even Brun’s squad of warriors obviously had nothing better to do than discuss him.

“Do you… do you really like him or...” Sammie asked with an awkward grimace.

“No.” Bard shook his head, feeling even more like a douchebag for admitting the truth. “I mean, I like him, but not in that way. I’m sorry for what happened.”

“I overheard Harisa drilling you about it earlier.” Sammie said to the floor. “I agree, it shouldn’t be everyone’s business what you do or when you do it. But maybe you should be more careful. All eyes are on you now. And I would hate it if this thing ruins your chances with Thranduil.”

“What chances?” Bard huffed out a mirthless laugh. “I’m not sure I have any chances with him at all.”

“Why!?” Sammie looked shocked. “Of course you do! Don’t let yourself think anything else, regardless of what Flint or anyone else says!”

“He... “ Bard hesitated. “I am really uncertain if he feels the same way. I spoke to him before we left.”

  
“And?” His friend leaned in conspiratorially, abandoning all pretence for working as Bard had done some time ago.

“We kissed again. I mean, we really kissed this time.” Bard added in a quieter tone. Somehow discussing these moments with Thranduil made him feel far more vulnerable than getting reprimanded by everyone about how he had frotted with Flint in the corridor while they had overheard the whole thing.

“Oh my god!” Sammie slapped his hands on the table. “Really? And!?”

“And… And I asked him how he feels about me.” Bard said. “And he said something that I’m not certain how to take.”

“What did he say?” Sammie asked.

“He said that he’d need to let his feelings _grow_ , or something like this.” Bard hid his face in his hands.

“Ok… did he say when they’d _grow_?” His friend encouraged him.

“No, he didn’t and…” Bard looked at him between his fingers, feeling himself blushing furiously. “And I’m not sure. Is this how love is supposed to be? Does he actually like me, or…”

“Bard, what’s wrong?” Sammie put a hand on his shoulder, seeing that the older teenager was beginning to shake.

“I just wonder if it’s just like it was with me and Flint.” Bard hissed and looked away, feeling his eyes watering. He really didn’t want to cry in front of Sammie, especially not about something like this, however it was almost happening and he just couldn’t face his friend or say another word.

“No, don’t say that!” The other boy shook him. “Of course it’s not like you and Flint! For one, you’ve known each other and been friends for much longer than you’ve known this guy, and you aren’t even friends with Flint. Come on, Bard - it’s not the same!

“The way he looks at you - it’s obvious to everyone that he is only with us for you.” Sammie continued when Bard didn’t react. “Maybe it would take some time and maybe it’s not going to happen right now, but I’m sure that Thranduil feels something for you. You definitely have a chance.”

Bard sucked in a deep breath.

“As long as he doesn’t find out.” He said and gave his friend a rueful smile. “Or do you think he’d forgive me that as well?”

Sammie bit his lip.

“I’d love to lie to you, but I’m not too sure it would help your case.” The younger boy said. “I’ll tell everyone to keep their mouths shut, or else - really, I’m gonna make sure no one breathes a word about this to him.”

Bard choked up a laugh despite the bitterness clogging his throat. Once again stunned by Sammie’s loyalty to him. He felt like hugging the other teenager, but he reigned in himself. He was just glad that he had found a true friend. It meant the world to him.

“Those potatoes aren’t going to peel themselves.” He chuckled, trying to hide the moisture that had once again risen in his eyes.

“True that.” Sammie said and picked up another vegetable.

“I hope Harisa comes back soon.” Bard added, gesturing to the sacks of potatoes lying beside them. “I didn’t imagine this rescue mission like this. This is more like what I was doing in the Master’s camp.”

“I agree - I need some adventure!” Sammie nodded. “I also hope old Masego is fine in the Battery Factory. He’s too old for this work. I’m more concerned about him than anyone else. Except for your brother and sisters that is.”

….

The same night, the Refugee Leader slept with the poorest of the workers, those whose wages did not manage to cover their housing and were therefore forced to dwell inside the unused warehouse halls, sleeping on the ground over rags and dirty matts like little more than animals.

It wasn’t anything the old man had not endured before. Several decade hence when he had traveled to the North, going from town to town, working odd jobs and making his way to the capital with the money he managed to collect, he had been far worse.

Besides it was temporary. He had already established his connections inside the Battery Factory and was waiting for the final confirmation before the strike would set off the coordinated chain of events, which would lead to Newdalion’s destruction.

An ache was forming in the elder’s joints. It was surely going to rain again in the morning, and the man couldn’t sleep. His instincts were telling him that things were drawing to a close and he wouldn’t have to wait long before it all begun.

Amongst the sleeping people a girl, dressed in dirty work clothes approached. Masego was sitting with his back to a support beam, his eyes half-closed, drifting on the edge of sleep and waiting.

“Sir,” The girl whispered.

“I’m no more Sir than you a Lady, darling.” Masego let out a tired laugh. “Well, out with it. Or do you want to keep an old man awake when tomorrow’s shift might just be the death of me?”

The girl, whom he did not know, seemed taken aback by his attitude. Well, Masego just didn’t know what people expected when they met him lately. Clearly someone had been singing him high praises and he knew a certain Lady who might have been responsible.

“You are Sir Masego, right?” The girl asked cautiously.

“Yes, yes.” He sighed. “Now tell me, is it tomorrow?”

“Yes, it’s tomorrow.” She confirmed.

“Good. Go then, get some rest, darling. And don’t let anyone see you sneaking about like that.” Masego frowned. He was too much like a grumpy old man even for his own liking. But that was what he had become. At his age, leading a rebellion, organising strikes and dethroning evil stewards... he was allowed to have some eccentricities, right?

“Where does she even find those kids…” Masego muttered tiredly to himself and then he remembered exactly where Goditha had found most of her most loyal links.

The Lady had saved a lot of children and adults from starvation, misfortune and jail based on debts. The fact that her most devoted were often those who seemed like the weakest and smallest in society was not that surprising. But they were not, Masego knew that much from experience. Those who were most misfortunate were often the strongest, most resilient and wisest amongst all.

But there was time for contemplation and there was time for work. It was time for the latter, and Masego slowly pushed his aching body up, supporting his weight on the column behind him for as long as he could before letting his legs adjust to standing. He was really getting too old for adventures.

Slowly he made his way through the room. He had a lot of people to talk to that night, instructions and encouragement to give. It was unlikely that he’d get any sleep at all, but that was how it was. And Masego wasn’t complaining. Well, maybe just a little bit.

…

Meanwhile, the night was chilly in the forests of Oakwood. The air was humid from the earlier rain and the foliage at the men’s feet was soaked, slippery and muddy as they followed their ethereal leader on foot through pathless ways.

The Elven King, who lead a force of about a thousand swordsman and five hundred archers was probably the only thing visible in the darkness of the overcast night. His pale hair seemed to glow like a beam of starlight as he walked with his hood down at the front of his men, advancing in stealth towards the edges of the forest near the Battery Factory.

Nituna, his second in command, remained stationed with the majority of their forces as Thranduil advanced forth with a small group of the stealthiest of their warriors. They needed to scout the lands ahead under the cover of darkness and return with intel of what lay ahead.

As the Haradri woman waited she turned her attention to the soldiers. The men were exhausted by the march amongst the trees. True to his word, Thranduil was tireless - he walked with ease and grace where men stumbled and slipped. He had no fear of the dark nor did he need to sleep. It was truly a good thing that Nituna was with him to remind the Elven King of human limits. Even though she had once thought herself tiredless as well. She who had stalked the savannas of the far South and ran without cease for miles. But these cold forests were not like the lands of her previous life. And on this night, even a daughter of the sun needed rest.

The Elven King’s party returned swiftly, quiet as the creatures of the night.

“What did you see?” Nituna asked the elf as soon as he approached her.

“The woods around the Factory have been cut down.” Thranduil responded calmly, however she could see the fury the elf tried to hide. His pulse raised, a vein palpitating on his pale throat, his breaths came quick through his nose, making little steam clouds in the cool air between them.

Nituna did not understand what elves were, but she understood the creatures of the world. Her tribe had formed close bonds with some of the mightiest and most noble animals that roamed their lands. She knew their pride, their dignity and their anger, and she did not need much more than that knowledge to deal with Thranduil. His nature was very expressive, bond to the land as he was. It only took a little notice to see it.

“Any shelter we might have used to move forward has been destroyed.” The Elven King continued. He reminded her of a great beast, something wild and terrible, yet kind and gentle in its strength, with no innate malice in its nature. So unlike humans. “There is only mud and ridges filled with polluted water, swamps of unnatural waste and heavy dark smoke hanging low over the land.”

“The wind can blow the smoke.” Nituna said. A plan was forming in her head yet it was difficult to express it in the common tongue. “Look.”

She kneeled to the ground, took a dry twig from the forest floor and began to sketch in the mud. She could hardly see what she was doing in the dark, yet she knew that Thranduil’s eyes were that of a night bird. He saw what she could not.

“The smoke could hide us?” Thranduil guessed, looking at the pictures she was drawing for him.

“Yes.” She said. “We can go here. And then there. The Wind comes…”

She illustrated the north wind blowing the smoke to the south in the morning.

“We take this position.” She drew a line, which illustrated how their troops could move under the cover of the fallen smoke from the south. That way they were going to surprise the troops that besieged the factory when Masego’s strike would start on the next day.

“Those fumes are poisonous.” Thranduil disagreed. “We cannot lead the troops through the smoke.”

Nituna sighed and threw her twig to the ground, tilting her head to the side.

“What then?” She asked.

“We have no choice, but to attack from the open.” The elf said.

“That is stupid.” The warrior shook her head. “They are many. Our troops are not enough. We will die.”

“If we go through the smoke, many would die at a later time.” The Elven King argued. “I will not win this battle at the expense of your lives.”

Nituna was silent. She studied him quietly, trying to get a feel for what was in his heart. The elf seemed agitated beyond their immediate circumstances. She guessed that he too worried about the squad that had went into New Dale. Bard had went, as had her sister. If they did not win the battle, then their lives would be forfeit.

Empty reassurances were not going to help. She would not waste her breath on such.

“Tell me your plan.” Nituna said instead.

Thranduil’s eyes had turned towards the edges of the forest, seeing something that she could not see. When she spoke he turned to her, his attention snapping back to the present.

“The lands around the factory are so deteriorated that we can’t move through them without risking lives. We would need to go around. I know a route from the north. The land is riddled with spinney and copses. We might be able to go undetected if we use the cover of darkness. But if we decide to take that route, it would carry us a bit too far north and we must head south swiftly, if we hope to be in position on time.”

“These men are tired.” Nituna said, weighing their options in her head. “But tired is better than dead.” She added with a small smile.

Thranduil nodded, smiling slightly as well.

“It is decided then.” He agreed and they both stood up from where they had crouched on the ground.

Nituna left the Elven King and went to alert the troops. They would journey north, following their leader. If all went well, they would stay hidden for as long as it took for Newdalion’s forces to come out of New Dale and intercept them before they could attack Masego in the Battery Factory. They had nearly two days to find the right path. She hoped they would be enough.

…

The chamber inside the tower was ominous and forbidding, windowless and filled with a heaviness that had little to do with the darkness, which the scarce candles did little to disperse. Inside three children, a little girl of eight, her sister of fourteen and a boy of thirteen sat huddled together on the floor, holding each other against the perpetual cold.

Their tears had long since run dry and been replaced with a numb sense of dread, which was broken only from time to time when their meals and _the Man_ showed up.

Currently their spirits were being lifted by the first and the children eagerly pounced on the meal platter. A guard delivered it, opening the door just enough to deposit the single dish on the floor and turning the lock behind him once again.

All three brunettes hurried to see what they’d been given that day. As always it was cold, leftover food, scarcely enough to fill their bellies until the next meal would come, some time in the next day.

It had become their custom that Sigrid, the eldest in the absence of their brother Bard, took the platter and carried it inside the room. Bain and Tilda trailed after her like a litter of hungry kittens.

The girl used a sharpened bone to cut through the meat and vegetables and separate nine even portions. When she turned her eyes to her siblings her expression was hungry and filled with caution.

“One for each, three times a day.” She reminded them and set the tray in the middle of their group.

Her heart clenched seeing her younger sister, who had reached for one of the portions before Sigrid had even managed to put the tray on the floor. It hurt to see her so hungry, but Sigrid knew that she had to keep their meals in portions and feed her siblings through the day, because there was never any promise that _the Man_ would come.

“Mhwah is… tis…” Tilda’s question came through mouthfulls of sticky rice as she chewed around what looked like a blackened bone.

“Phew, phew phew…” The girl started spitting and Sigrid looked at her as sternly as her aching heart would allow her.

“Don’t waste food, Tilda.” The teen girl said.

“But what is this?!” Tilda’s fingers cleaned up the rice from _the thing_ that had been in her food and it became apparent that it wasn’t bone. It was wood.

Bain’s breath hitched.

“Let me see this!” He took the piece from his younger sister, who yelled in protest only to be shushed by Sigrid.

Bain cleared the piece until they beheld a tiny boat, a very familiar one in its simple design. Carved from a single piece of wood, this was by far not the best example of their brother’s woodcarving skills, but it was nevertheless unmistakable.

“Bard.” Bain breathed barely audibly and Sigrid put her mouth in front of their little sister’s mouth before she let out a squeal that would expose them.

“Hush, hush! Nobody must know.” Sigrid whispered in Tilda’s ear while a smile of relief and small tears of happiness blossomed on her youthful face.

“That means,” Bain leaned closer to his older sister. “that he’s coming! He’s coming to find us! I knew it!”

“I knew it too.” Sigrid agreed.

The sound of the door’s lock being released for the second time startled them and Bain quickly hid the boat in his clothes before going back to eating and pretending that nothing had happened.

This time it _the Man_ coming to visit them. At the sight of him Tilda immediately jumped up and ran to his embrace. He bent down to hold her as soon as he closed the door behind him.

“My little one.” He said in his kind voice. “I’m here.”

Sigrid and Bain exchanged wary looks. At first they had been equally grateful to see a friendly face - the Man, who was dressed as a noble and claimed he sneaked into their chamber unbeknown to the guards to try to help them, bringing them much needed extra food and sometimes games, soon began to seem suspicious. Especially since the day he had told them, that if anyone was to blame for their mother’s death, it was their older brother, who had unrightfully challenged the authority of Newdalion.

 _“Every action has consequences.”_ The Man had said. _“And the tragedy that happened to your family is no different. Bard wanted to usurp the true ruler of this country. The retaliation was inevitable.”_

These words had set a weight on each one of their hearts as privately they wondered how much, if any of it was true. Was Bard to blame for what had happened? Sigrid didn’t want to believe it, but she had seen the same grim look on Bain’s face as she knew she had worn on her own. On the other hand, Tilda was too young to think hard about such things. She still really enjoyed when the Man visited. On this occasion he had brought some sweetcakes and gave them to Tilda, who hurried to stuff one in her mouth before bringing the rest to her siblings.

 _“Are you implying that Bard was to blame about this?”_ Bain had asked.

Sigrid and Bain took the biscuits cautiously and ate slowly, eyes fixed on the ash-blonde man who kneeled on showed Tilda some disappearing coin tricks.

 _“It’s not up for me to judge.”_ The Man’s olive-green eyes had been cunning and predatory, like that of a fox. _“It’s up to you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and please don't kill me! I know this chapter might piss some of you off, but this is still very much a barduil fic, otherwise that sex scene would have been 4-5K of explicit smutt, you know my writing ;)


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